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 own
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 married one
That twirled my forever barefoot bride
who became a stranger in just a matter of years.
My hand is the daddy one
That rocked and burped,
drove the same distance to Mars
and wrapped Christmas presents
like it was a covert operation for the CIA.
And now
My hand is the grandpa one
The one that strokes my grandson’s bounty of curls
And soothes him until all is lost in the great battle of
I will not take a nap.
As he sleeps
Like some dame slipped knock-out drops into his sippy cup
Despite this outsized feeling of grandpa victory
I find myself staring at this hand of mine
That I do not recognize
With its shortened lifeline
As wrinkled as a Shar-Pei
or an unmade bed
And I can’t help but wonder
When the end finally comes,
Who will take it?
Who will want to hold it?
Who will never want to let it go? is can’t possibly be my hand.
My hand is the tiny ones
That tried to weave the infinity of moonlight
Into something tangible
from the launching pad of a white wicker cradle
My hand is the 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 own
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 married one
That twirled my forever barefoot bride
who became a stranger in just a matter of years.
My hand is the daddy one
That rocked and burped,
drove the same distance to Mars
and wrapped Christmas presents
like it was a covert operation for the CIA.
And now
My hand is the grandpa one
The one that strokes my grandson’s bounty of curls
And soothes him until all is lost in the great battle of
I will not take a nap.
As he sleeps
Like some dame slipped knock-out drops into his sippy cup
Despite this outsized feeling of grandpa victory
I find myself staring at this hand of mine
That I do not recognize
With its shortened lifeline
As wrinkled as a Shar-Pei
or an unmade bed
And I can’t help but wonder
When the end finally comes,
Who will take it?
Who will want to hold it?
Who will never want to let it go?
Wow! So touching! (and yes, pun intended) I really enjoyed reading and, sadly, relating.
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