Pink sun rising over cuticle sill,
rosy flesh beneath transparent window of you,
why have I never wondered that you spread
across raw skin, reach beyond round tip,
produce opaque crescent moon waxing toward
necklace clasps, stubborn stickers, scabs and
itching skin, not useful like your four sisters,
but useful nonetheless, scratching unconvincingly
where they reach to scratch, an afterthought,
sometimes not joining in scratching at all. Lazy?
I think not. You have your own mind.  You simply ride
the thumb, that famous digit that makes us
what we are, fumbling, reluctantly following others
to find purpose. When needed, though lonely,
you do what needs done, and it is enough.


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