Sore Hands

The chords between these bones are wound a little tight
and every time my digits flex a cracking breeds abasement.
People say to stop the taps, the clicking and the rickets,
but as the infrastructure of my hands will soften and degrade,
I cannot help but reach in hopes of grasping someone's praises.
I've built and buffed these mannish claws for purpose clear, concise,
yet every step with arms at length results in falling, clutching;
scraping up the rivets, steel, and stones of blithe indifference.
Whereas had I huddled in a squarish, smallish trench and curled
my fingers 'round my middle, dense, and hid from their derision,
I couldn't help but panic and assume I've missed your passing-by:
the one true thing that signifies your where and when, or how and why,
and whether you will soon return to mark the way you're walking.
Rely on me - above, beneath; I'll sooner drown in draining moats
than miss a chance to feel, caress, and revel in your presence.
There are no words to supplant the touch, and in the touch, I will indulge,
as soon my permission grants - as soon as hands recover.

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