This Can’t Possibly Be My Hand
This can’t possibly be my hand. My hand is the tiny one That tried to weave the infinity of moonlight Into something tangible from the launching pad of a white wicker cradle My hand is the toddler one That was suffocated by a grown-up’s bigger one As we darted across The vast, black tar prairie of Jamaica Avenue In the middle of a car stampede. My hand is the kindergarten one that finger painted like Pollock Cranked a toy ukulele as if I only had minutes to live Gave life to puppets Clicked Bic pens like they were mini castanets Twirled the TV channel knob like a safecracker And tried to pin the tail on the donkey who had suffered the tragic loss of his My hand is the adolescent one That longed to touch the warm muffin breast of a willing girl Who would dance with me In the shadows of a school dance As my penis trembled and throbbed Like the front row of an Elvis concert. My hand is the young man’s one Which was made of young man’s dreams and a young man's blues My hand is the mar