Profit and Loss
Bruce McRae

Lose the finger to save the hand.
Like paring an apple to the rotted core.
Like pouring water onto desert sand
to lighten the load, to call death’s bluff.

The way butchers trim meat from the bone.
The way time nibbles away at eternity,
an hour’s loss the devil’s gainsay,
a minute spent a minute wasted.
​
It’s evening now, and what remains of the day?
A time-smudged letter. A wind-worn photograph.
A last memory clinging to a last breath.
A ring of smoke around your fiery finger.