My mom used to get her nails done,
long acrylic, hard for endurance,
painted Washington Red,
standing out against the standard,
Chevy-gray dashboard backdrop.
On turns she’d tippy-tap
on the steering wheel,
and she’d click like African tongues
on the radio dial.
I decided I needed nails too.
I took Scotch tape
from the drawer in the kitchen
where lost pennies,
crooked paper-clips,
and bread-fresh twisty ties go,
and wrapped a piece around
each bitten fingertip,
and pinched the end into a thin tip,
hard enough to tippy-tap.
On the dashboard
I’d imitate the clicks,
attempting to learn
the tongue of tape nails.