My Shriveled Finger Poem by James McLain

My shriveled finger is behaving now like
what's been independently discussed it's behaving
like what she has as my witness seen.

Bumping into furniture in the middle of the night
dribble drop's fall as rain in the carpet.
Bloody shins that elicite a sharp stabbing pain.

When it happens, it in my sleep happens, durring the
most important part of the dream.
No reruns as I settle back inside my head
where I last left off.

While I can't explain it,
she can sense it. I can feel the finger wrinkled
redevelop as it then again disappears.
My green wardrobe,
when it's to close to the closet then it feels.

Reductive after being touched it with that mind of it's
own without it going off prematurely,
only manifests itself for a short period of time after exposure.

Any decent wholesome woman, who owns
a green dress and who has
seen it and has experienced his pent
up breath so deeply exhaled could only express
her surprise at this, his last regret.
To any other similar experiences, she has claimed
through her distinct
satisfaction that I once, thrice daily endured.