Here's to my index ---
How many times have I stroked you
(How many times have you stroked me!)
You a constant, and
A pointed friend.

Here's to this old digit named Peter
(As in Peter, Paul, John, Matthew
And Mary Magdalene, she Ms Thumb).
As you can see, I hold my digits
In reverence --- and he (or she)
I trust holds me in equal
(and loving)
awe.

Once I smashed Peter with a flathead
Hammer. It's not that we were at war,
It's more that I was drunk, and my friend
Was holding the nail (I was hanging a rail
To cross the skylight, to hold the Lives).
There was blood. "Poor Peter," I said.
I assured him I didn't mean it at all.
The Four Horsemen from the other side,
Those who wielded the instrument of
Such pain, held him, I believe,
In pity and in love.

"It was just a mistake," I say now, but
Ever since then, his visage (looking at me
From under the shield) has seemed darker,
A cloud hanging over the gibbous moon ---
Separating me from an old friend,
One who, in days past, was always,
Cocksuredly pointing the way for me.

--- A.T. Kendall