Patience

My fingers sound like typewriters
each a click-i-ty-clack across the glass
filing down my nails to nubs of what once was.
And I am waiting patiently.
Screaming with my patience.
Twisting hair and chewing cheeks with all that is my patience.

It was one small fingernail that made me pause;
lying on the countertop
one pristine fingertip
a piece of me that came undone
in the midst of my accommodating, uncomplaining, patient click and clack.
It lie there as a gem, glistening in the light, spinning ever so.
It was then I told the rest of my small hand to just hold tight;
do not go the way of that stray bit,
there is reason still for staying on
and clicking with the rest.
It was then I learned what patience meant:
When there is more to type.