Fingers

Fingers are diplomats attached to a fist,
negotiating peace while the knuckles insist. 
point at problems they never intend to fix, 
shaking the world like a cocktail they forgot to mix. 

Fingers poke at the future, scratch at the past, 
stretching tiny problems into dramas built to last.
 clutch at certainty, then drop it on the floor,
 swearing they had it firmly just a second before. 

Fingers grip fingers in a confident shake
 insisting every shiver is a stand they had to take.
 Meddle in moments they barely understand, 
tapping on tables like a scandal at hand. 

Their signatures swagger with more ego than ink,
 as if humanity should pause for a finger to think.