Johnny Johnson was my Grandma’s cousin.
He had an extra thumb grown out of the side of his right thumb
that we always wanted to look at and touch.
But Ma wouldn’t let us ask him.
Except once when she went to get him some iced tea
we drifted over like farm dogs to a dead rat
and I said
“Can we see that thumb?”
Johnny Johnson opened the screen door with his long foot
and spit out over the wooden step
where a spotted dog slept with a new spot on his ear.
And in his voice was wonder and in his voice was compassion
and in his voice was manhood.