Pointy Thing
by Odin Roark

In that nighttime dream I’ll probably never have,
there’s this…

Finger, finger in the air,
who’s the idiot winkin’ there.

As if we should be impressed.
As if they know somebody we should know.
As if “Hey, how’s it goin’,” I should care.

Give me substance,
not “I’m so popular,”
or
“I’m supposed to point,
even if there’s nobody there.”

Here’s what to do…

Have dinner with Hannibal.
Let him wine you to sleep,
hack off that digit of yours,
serve it to you for desert,
and even as you awaken,
staring wide eyed at the missing pointy “thing,”
you can always try some honesty,
like, “What the f…k! Where’s my finger?”
and he’ll give you an honest reply. “Bon a petite!”

No pretensions there, right?