Apr 20, 2011
On Disembodied Hands
Standing, waiting for the bus, I see a Hand, all on its own, its wielder shrouded In shadow and a gothically minded Ensemble. Severed claw, steering away, Off to go touch typing, earning its pay. Thimble of coffee, its typing proofread, It cruises job sites, it contacts its head Hunter. Nothing. Looks like another day. On the drive home it's distracted, thinks Back to the time it hitchhiked across The American west to be a star. Hanging in Los Angeles, some hijinks On set, dropped as a stunt double, their loss. Falls asleep tonight, dreams about that scar.