Dumb Stub

Let me see your hands.
How'd you get that tiny scar?
Is that a cigarette burn on your palm?
My left hand is fine, but my right,
it's half-missing, from the door of a car
that slammed a bit too fast. I stayed calm
even when Mrs. McGuire fainted
and Teddy ran out of sight,
into the house to call someone.
I laughed, the way his funny frame
bounced up the three-step entrance.
I could see the crack of his ass,
framed above the curving waist of his pants
and below a shirt a size too small.
And his breath, I could hear him struggle
with his nostrils clogged, such sorry passages.
I never once thought myself lame
like a beggar, not like a teenager
who can't call back his girlfriend.
I still don't think that, even though
typing's become a chore, I'm always
mashinunk,ijk.ml- see right there?
Dumb stub.