There’s plenty of flesh on her finger,
sagging, loose, folded ,
crumpled at the knuckle.
The nail is peach, white at the tip
manicured, manufactured; plastic.
She reaches out towards a musty key.
The greyish, flesh-coloured cube
awaits her touch.
She withdraws from her thrust,
her finger folds away with the rest.
Reassured, she begins again.
Her fat stub hovering
over the scrabble of letters
With a satisfied click
the key flattens into the board.