Half-Moon Edge

The drone of the meeting, words

that slide off like grease.

My right hand, without asking,

finds the edge of my left thumb.

The cuticle, a small ridge,

just above the pale, perfect half-moon.

There's a faint line there, where I bit it

once, when I was seven, trying to hide

that I didn't know the answer.

A small, unconscious excavation.

Something to do with the hands

when the mind is full of nothing

but the need to get to the end of it.