Bruised and Bent

Caught between cold metal jaws,

the smallest finger swells,

a crooked protest against the morning rush.

Against the faded wood grain,

it bruises quietly, black and blue,

a forgotten player

in the frantic symphony of getting ready.

It aches in stutters, sharp and slow,

a dull complaint from the overlooked,

reminding me how something small

can scream loud enough to stop the day.