Thirty-one: My Hands Are Still Too Often

My hands are still too often.
They yearn to write
but there is no thought.
They yearn to cook
but there is no guest.
They yearn to talk
but there is no ear.
They yearn to stroke
but there is no hair.

So they sit,
limp as a puddle,
in an empty lap,
saving energy
like summer squirrels.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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