The Way It Is Poem by Amanda Lukas

I wonder if he has
the same crooked little finger I have.
Does he stare at it in the same
irritated way I do
when there's not much else on my mind
or even when I have many more important things
to think about and do,
but still find myself cought up in my own minuscule flaws?
Is he left-handed like me?
She was,
or at least my memory of her permits her to have been.
She was the artist, the painter, the goof, and the
life of the party.
What was his contribution?
I doubt that I will ever know.
I admit that I am wanting
but not willing to make an attempt
for fear of learning something I don't really want to know.
Ignorance is bliss unless otherwise proven.
This is the way it's always been:
me wondering, wishing, but never taking action
and him wondering, wishing, but never daring to change.
At least, I think that's the way it is,
probably the way it'll always be.