The Outlier

I caught it in the heavy oak drawer,

a dull snap that echoed in the wrist.

Now it won't hold the shape of the chord anymore,

just a small, crooked hinge in the fist.

The nail is still ridged from a bike-chain slip

back when I was seven and reckless and small.

It’s the weakest link in a failing grip,

the first part of me likely to fall.

I watch it tremble against the steel string,

stubborn and awkward and slightly askew.

It’s such a pathetic and marginal thing

to keep me from what I should do.