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.