The Left Arm

He moved it from his lap to the armrest

the way you'd move something borrowed —

both hands, careful, the fiberglass edge

settling onto the metal rail.

His fingers came out the other end

slightly swollen, slightly still.

He scrolled with his right hand after that,

tilted the phone a little to compensate.

Managed.

People manage.

But I kept thinking about the way the arm rested —

like it had already accepted something

the rest of him was still catching up to.

The particular weight of it.

The thing that required a small renegotiation

every time he shifted.

I thought about it all day.

Not him, exactly.

The arm.

The careful way of moving it.

He got off two stops before me.

Stood, tucked the cast against his side,

pulled his jacket over it with his free hand,

and was gone.

I sat in his seat.

The armrest was still warm.