Thumbs Down

I blame everything

on our thumbs. Their

cursèd opposability;

picturing how things

would go

if not for their relative

acrobatics:

the trees all

where they’d be

if not for them; none to wield

an axe, grip a barrelled

pistol in the night,

birth the drop of

Fat Man

in Japan.

We’ve been told this

supposedly elevates

our species above the rest—

the way in which our

thumb has touched the tips

of every finger,

the sign of I’m OK

(now usurped by the

Aryan right).

This stout & stunted digit

is a narcissistic

rebel, refusing to stand

in line with all the others,

the longer, slimmer doigts

above its head—

stuck in its lowly place

upon our hand.

It gets an unduly

amount of credit—

for crafting our way

to the sky, the moon,

and one day to Tau Ceti.

I say it’s not as clever

as we’ve made it out to be—

its lexicon rather

scant—locked in yes or no;

while the index points our

way; the pinky uplifts our

class while sipping chai;

and although the middle

likes to cuss, flip its phallic

shaft into the air, you have to admit

it’s effective at revealing its

message in every language;

and then the one that screams

commitment—

“sorry boys, I’m taken”—

this bearer of gold & diamond,

breaker of fervent hearts.

Andreas Gripp

May 10, 2025

RF Image