Haricots verts

I found a finger in a bag of beans.
It seemed tired; middle-aged, for sure.
The finger of a man who’d seen some things:
Dusted with coarse hair towards the stump
Although, surprisingly, devoid of blood.

It was thicker than a bean, but just as rough
To touch, and not much longer; absurdly I
Imagined it snipped off amidst a bunch
Of beanstems gathered to cut: absurd, because
The beans weren’t trimmed: I still had that to do.

The children were getting hungry, so I put
The water on to boil, and rinsed the veg,
Set the rogue digit on the counter but
Quite far back, behind the colander, so
They wouldn’t see it. The police, I thought,
...