The Exquisite Thumb

The persnickety thumb,
most snobbish of all digits.

Thumbs up. It's all OK.
Thumbs down, and the decision has been made,
the die cast.

Without the thumb, I could not have pinched her fine bottom,
nor could I have fended off the assailant
by poking my thumb in his eye. I couldn't have grown
such rare roses and vegetables, and
without the thumb, specific rules
could no longer be applied.

No longer would I be set apart
from so many of my animal cousins.
I could not measure and gauge, one eye closed, arm extended. Nor could I, with index finger and thumb,
form two sides of a square
to frame a scene for a painting
or to compose a photo.

I couldn't thumb my nose at the quarrelsome geezer next door, nor could I have hitchhiked half-way across Europe,
no longer under my parent's thumb.

Without the exquisite thumb, I would not be able to hold my pen to write these words in its praise.