Identity Theft

I washed my hands until the skin went tight

but the grease from breakfast still found a way.

I touched the screen and in the slanting light,

I saw the whorl of where my thumb decided to stay.

It’s a topographical map of a very small state,

a series of ridges that prove I was here.

It sits on the glass like a seal of fate,

making the high-definition picture go smear.

I tried to wipe it with a microfiber cloth,

but the oil just dragged into a longer streak.

I’m a clumsy thing, a heavy-handed moth,

leaving my mark on everything shiny and sleek.