The One I Never Named

I jammed it in the car door two days ago.

Not badly—just enough

to swell the knuckle slightly,

make it go a little shiny.

This morning on the steering wheel

I caught it and stopped.

I have never thought about my pinky finger.

Not once, in any year I can count.

The other fingers have something—

the index, a scar from a box cutter,

the middle, broken in fourth grade.

The ring finger has the obvious associations.

The thumb has done things.

But the pinky.

I looked at it on the wheel.

The second knuckle slightly puffed.

A thin crescent of dried skin

at the base of the nail

that must have been there before

and I never saw it.

Three inches long, maybe.

There my entire life,

completing the count,

taking up its space on the hand.

I drove to work.

The knuckle caught the light

every time I turned.