Living here is like occupying
a five digit glove with a rickety
staircase spanning the palm.
Of course it takes courage
and some days courage hides in
the pinkey and the only way
to access it is to maneuver
the rickety staircase.
On those days, which are almost
every day, it is a waste to struggle
towards courage. I have to
bask in the contentment of the index.
And that takes some expertise on basking.
First off, I have to cease envy of the
middle. The middle is completely staid
but certain. Even using the word staid gets
me off track, correction, puts me in the ring.
The ring leads astray. The ring doesn’t
really give an accurate picture of security. Single
or married, living here takes guts and guts can
only be had by sticking out the thumb.
The thumb once bought me a ride out of
the Swiss Alps. Without the thumb I would
still be there, wandering around like Julie
Andrews without the glamor of the Von Trapps.
As it was, I stuck it out and it managed to show
up in a poem. Like this one.
Some rare days the glove curls
into a fist and I can’t make sense
of anything. But I can still write.
I can hand off words like
fingernails on a blackboard.