Fingers
I now type with only a finger
For neuropathy makes me lame
Muscle spasms in hands linger
My hands seem to ignore my brain
It’s as if I never was a typist
Who flew 65 words a minute
Now I’m limited my gripe is
Takes me longer to finish
You’d think I’d complain I’m not vain
My other deficiencies are worse
But who wants an artist who can’t paint
Or a poet too hurt to word verse
I know my lupus has no cure
My asthma is no fun to me
But give me fingers fast and pure
To delight in the writing with ease
When I try to play piano
Fudge fingers suck the air
Notes yell like silver Soprano
A melody ruined by despair
I have mixed feeling about it
We all have a cross to bare right
But with fingers like mine I doubt it
Could complain and moan all night
Dear poetess had hip surgery
And has persevered despite all
So I say what the nerve of me
To complain of finger pain small talk
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