What Carries Us Without Complaint

I've been typing all day.

The pinky aches—not sharp,

just tired, just ready to depart

from this keyboard, this endless relay.

I look down at my hand.

The pinky is crooked, bent

at an angle I never meant

to notice, but here it stands.

There's a callus where it meets the key,

a ridge of skin molded and shaped

by the work, by how it's mapped

itself into the body's history.

The other fingers are fine—

straight, uncompromised, they don't

bear the cost. But this won't

stop reaching, won't draw a line.

It aches. It bends. It complies.

The angle worsens. The callus grows.

The body keeps score and shows

itself through these small compromises.

I keep typing anyway.

The keyboard doesn't care.

The pinky will bear

whatever it takes to stay

in this position, this reach,

this small rebellion that can't teach

me anything except that we all pay

the price, in ways small enough to ignore each day.