I can count on more friends than fingers.

Overall, they’re opposable thumbs.

 

They let me wrap them ‘round all of my issues

Warm my hands when dead thoughts make them numb.

 

Their palms read of just manifestoes

When the crack of their whip meets the skin

Of a villain dressed plainly in street clothes

While their hands have been spit on by sin.

 

The pointers, I find, are to guide me

When the compass I hold’s pointing South.

 

The middle ones’ there to protect me

So I don’t draw a fist to my mouth.

 

The ring fingers’ weak with no strengthening

But I find that they’re always still there-

Helping out when I’m trying to hold things

Handling all my possessions with care.

 

My pinkies are still the polite ones

Turning out when I take my tea

But they lend me unshakable balance

When the strength’s left the joints in my knees.

 

I can handle the bite of the boiler

But when containers can’t govern the flare,

I’ll protect my hands with oven mitts,

Because, I too, try to always be there.