The Rubber Glove

“You pointing your finger at ME?”
a quizzical look on my face
“You pointing your finger at me?”
in my best imitation of DeNiro
while the doctor, smiling,
snapped on his rubber glove.

Raynaud's Phenomenon

With one small word 

all the goodness had been wrung out of the day

Her secret silver hair now covered in hennas of tobacco brown

and at other times natural brown or natures brown

 When wanting excitement

black or very black

Now hung lank and languid over the computer terminal

 Raynuad's blue fingers scratching at the keyboard

searching Google for the meaning of life

He walks by and coughs

her fingers keep moving

she does not even look up