my fingers from the side
look like crooks' claws,
and I can't help but notice them
while I am reading a book in bed. 

I must read more, I tell myself,
and workout, but I hate working out,
and I love television,
for it is my meditation,
but I feel good and productive
when I read. 

I scratch my greasy temple
with the crook pinky
on my left hand
and continue to the next chapter. 

It is weird to think
that I have never seen my father
write a letter;
sure, I've never seen the man
who is my father,
but it's the little things
that make me think.

My fingers might be his,
because my face is my mother's,
greasy and gross,
lines from laughing.