Pen Mark

The pen slipped, an ordinary thing.

My middle finger, right where it sits,

has learned to build its own tough skin.

A small, hard ridge, where ink submits.

Smooth, almost waxy, a pale gray mound.

I press it hard, feel nothing at all.

Numb to the point, no pain is found.

Just quiet proof against the fall.

Years of pressing, that slight drag.

A small, unfeeling monument.