A Nervous Tick
My hands betray me,
fingers don't bend, curl, squeeze
like they used to do;
each hand, unitary,
serves as once a finger did,
but I still have only two.
Every now and then,
something shoots or stabs,
first finger left or third right;
pain, no gain, but
at least I haven't lost
my punctuation.
2 comments:
cool poem
So glad you like it!
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