Count it.
One. Two. Three. And Four.
Only four. Only four.
Most people have five.
But I have only four.

Remnants of an accident.
They say, I’m lucky to be alive.
They say I’m lucky to have only four.
Only. Only. Only. Only.
It’s never enough. I just need one more.

The rest of me’s intact.
Arms. Legs. Hair. Eyes.
It’s all there. Everything.
There was that broken rib . . .
But that healed alright.
Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s missing.

I have everything.
I have my family. I have my life.
I have my limbs. I have my hands.
Only one thing is missing.
Only. Only. Only. Only four.

I should have five.
I should have five fingers on my left hand.
I only have four.
Four fingers on a hand that should have five.
Out of everything I lost a pinky.

I’m lucky to be alive.
I have everything.
Arms. Family. Life. Legs.
But I can still count.
And there’s something missing.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.