My left pinky finger is
stuck as I write this,
bent as if bowed in
deep submission.
Crooked and unable
to go straight.
This was amusing the
first few times it occurred, now
it's mainly annoying, with
a tinge of anxiety re
portents of things to come.
O, fateful finger,
precursor of the Great Decline,
an insidious slide toward
decrepitude and death?
Here today, but
gone tomorrow?
Metaphor for loss of
form and function,
hopes and dreams
and aspirations.
"Relax," I tell myself, knowing that
my finger will do just that and
unfold.
All will be restored.
At least for now.
--Ken M., 62
