For Gary

You always told me to hold on to your ‘nub’
And it was embarrassing, to go around holding that
Maimed pinky finger of yours, while you just chuckled
I resented that you called me ‘mo’, until you no longer could
No one took up that nickname, after your death
It died with you, but wasn’t buried in the same mahogany casket
Do you know how much she spent on it?
If you did, why you’d have turned over by now
I tried searching for your pinky finger, in the days after you cut it off
I felt it was the least I could do
But you sent me on a wild goose chase for it
I was never even looking in the right vicinity
You know, I could have helped you, if you weren’t so dead-set
On turning everything into a joke
It doesn’t seem all that funny anymore
At your funeral, I tried to wake you up
I took your advice, willingly for once
I stood on my tip toes (I wore my ruby slippers)
And reached in and grabbed what was left of your little finger
I tugged it, over and over and over and over
Until your daughter realized that her daughter was making a scene
‘Honey, he’s not there’ but I kept tugging
‘Honey, don’t.’ but I kept tugging
‘STOP!’ and that was that.
It seems like not much has changed since your death
I’m still grasping for fingers that aren’t there.