Ambidextrous

July 15 2015

Hands at rest.

Or trembling hands

that worry beads

anxiously wring

or humbly entreat

clasped together in prayer.

And sure hands,

giving firm shakes, generous waves

thumbs-up, and A-OK.

That fist-bump, glad-hand

back-slap, and button-hole,

hand-clap in standing O's.

Human hands

that warm

make

touch.

Manly hands, that give and take

the rough embrace

of unaccustomed love.

That afflict the ticklish

'til he begs forgiveness,

tormenting with mirth.

That shake a fist

or flip the bird

or taunt him you’re in first.

You can pluck or pick, stroke or tweeze

scratch or rub

but be discrete.

Button-up, or zipper-down,

the strut, the strip

the tease.

Smash and grab, or snap the beat

tap-tap-tap, impatiently

rap sharply on the door.

Pick out texts

smoke cigarettes

count to ten, and more.

Or blow a kiss

her hand in his

her lips traced out with yours.

Her hand, beckoning

tongue, wettening

lips

glistening red.

Doodle, fold

print, or trace

the scrap, the pad, the page.

Because blank space

is irresistible,

just as we prattle on

to fill the awkward pause.

The sign of the cross, hands laid-on,

the crisp salute

the handing-off.

Because with the language of touch

you are never lost,

talking with your hands

for the hard of hearing,

consoling the anguish

of the lonely and fearing.

Or jammed in your pockets, and stopped.

How hard you'll find it

holding them perfectly still.