My friend’s middle finger is stuck
in a perpetual fuck you— one souvenir
of the accident. The bright side:
she’s always prepared
if someone pisses her off.
Motoring to a fashion show,
a Hummer smashed through, flattening
her roof like tin foil. She lay tangled
in a welter of silk and metal,
crepe and dashboard.
I tell her, Most would be bitter,
coming back with a sluggish leg,
one unruly eye, and that eternal
flip of the bird.
She tells me, All of life’s gifts
are flowers in my garden— as she smiles
and gives me the finger.
© BARB REYNOLDS
Published in Voice of Eve, Issue 4 2018
This poem may not be reproduced without the author’s permission.