My Middle Finger
My middle
finger wants to write
a poem of his own, he has
no need of thumbs or index
fingers. He’s outgrown all other
uses that a normal finger has,
and for writing proper he says
stick that in your as. My middle
finger’s happy to be counted
one of three but only then to
measure out my liquor quantity.
After he has stirred into it hate
and bitter herbs he’s gonna sit
to write a pile of consonants
and verbs, but they won’t make
much sense unless your finger’s
bitter too, or if my middle finger’s
pointed out the gall in you. In
which case you’ll have joined him
in his quest to make things worse,
and sacrificed fine company for
bitter loneliness, just like my
middle finger who’s a proud and
stiffened bore, whose ranting never
quiets down when I give him the
floor. I guess my middle finger
thinks he speaks for my whole hand,
but on his own his gestures are
nowhere near as grand.
15/12/18 (2/6/21)