O, Thumb, the one,
we see your sign of
approval, sometimes doubled.
And you, Number Two, Index
ET extends his–
it glows, throbbing;
the touch of home.
The Middle,
you sometimes-rude one, but strong,
with your wafting digit, smell arrives.
O Ring, the fourth,
as a too-large metal band slides
free and strikes the floor,
sings.
Last and little, the pinkie
dips delicately into frosting
or guacamole, to sample
to taste.
I salute you,
the FIVE.
