The Weakest Link

I’m waiting for a ringing that won't start.

The phone is getting heavy in my palm.

I feel the static pulling us apart,

the end of hope, the arrival of the calm.

My smallest finger has a yellowed spot,

a hard, flat callus where the plastic rests.

It’s curled into a tight and lonely knot,

a tiny failure among larger tests.

It’s the first part of the hand to lose its grip,

the one that can't hold on to much at all.

I feel the future start to lose its zip

and let the little finger take the fall.