Grip

My fingers hunt through the lint

and the dry flakes of tobacco.

I was looking for a smoke,

but I found the ghost of a Tuesday.

The wire is bent into a jagged Z,

kinked by a thumb that didn't know

how to hang up the phone.

It bites into the pad of my skin,

leaving a white, bloodless crater.

I’ve been carrying this sharp corner

in the dark of my pocket

for ninety days.