Middle Finger

A papercut on my left.
I turned a page of
Bradbury
too quickly
and he bit me.
Slow down,
he muttered,
Savor it.
You're young enough to have time,
old enough for a little patience.

On my right,
ink stains the inner part that
cuddles against my index finger.
My pink skin is calloused there from
hours, days, months
of writing,
a pen cradled in that very spot.
Ink lingers there like
nowhere else.
I suppose it's a little bit of home.

They'll tell you stories
if you'll listen.