My middle finger

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)