Buffer

I reached out to tuck that strand of hair,

thinking I was being—well, being there.

But my thumb is a tool, a hardened thing,

with a ridge of yellow like a plastic ring.

It caught on her temple, a dry, raspy scratch,

a piece of the sidewalk I managed to snatch.

I’ve spent too much time with a wrench and a grip,

and now I’m just a sander that’s starting to slip.