This is the finger crushed
between doors, age six
before mass, offered up
to the god of no ice: thankless, squat, bruised.
The stub scrumbling in loam,
awkward flinger of carrot seeds,
a thousand to the ounce.
This is the pit end of the shovel,
digit no one claims
from the bin of lost appendages,
stump with the spatulate nail, ugly in polish,
begging for a blunt clip.
Never the soft lamb, the silky tip.
Sandpapered, abraded of tissue.
Whorl of a tornado, spiral
of no-good, a print-on-record.
This is the thumb that wouldn’t get a job.
The thumb that finally lowered the shade,
pulled the pin, cocked the hammer.
The thumb that raised itself
roadside, no apologies. Hopped
into a vagabond truck, vanished.
copyright 2007, T. Clear
originally appeared in Bayou