When that panicked flight is run
and you stand bent, heaving for breath,
pause to assay the damage done
in your mad dash from imagined death.
The cuts and scrapes and nicks and tears
inflicted on your skin and clothes
Pale beside those fearful stares;
They’ll heal and mend, but what of those?
They’ll linger on, for quite awhile,
like articles archived away
deep in some drawer, a dusty file
saved to show, some distant day,
offered up as specious proof
That you’re not calm, cool, and aloof!