re-cycle

Coffee stained feet and kinks in my hair.
Seen this scene before, thinks me.
"You'll have to be in control today," she says.
"I pretty much rolled down the stairs last night."

Great. Great.

The kitchen floor is stained orange-yellow, an after-red.
We don't keep wine in the kitchen. It stays out front.

Standing beside some curiosity
Hiding behind a hairstyle I abandoned in year ten --
Two hands on my shoulders.
Rotate 90 degrees beside a crowded, slippery sink.
Some hands, and only hands.
This large, messy chaotic thai takeaway of a scene
suddenly smaller.
About two hands worth.
Two small, sad hands that want to go back home.

"It's ok."
I can't remember if I said this or if the hands did.

Some choreography around dishes and dirty rubber matts follows.

Later
I am
Seeking 1.5 litres of quiet time
and shy sideways glances
Not at the hands
At the hands' owner
Thank you, I say without a voice
Thank you says me shy
Thank you, thank you
Thank you small hands.

(This all started with hands:
Quick hands that played with sharp things.
They were afraid of being yelled at
so they picked off their own fingers.)

"I'm sorry,"
I tell the customers,
"There's a 25 minute wait while we repair some lives" and hands.
I don't think it will ever heal.
We learned about that in anatomy class.
How naive of me
to think I was the only one here with a
body.

During 1.5 litres of quiet time
I think about the last time I had two hands.
Palms up
Two small pools of Lady M.
That night I drank about as much red
as he bled out today.
I don't
give blood because I have
an Irrational Fear of Needles.

But I really like hands.
I really like shoulder blades.

I really don't like needles (see above).

Thank you hands.
Thank you small, sad hands;
I like how gentle you are.

Thank you friend.
I like how gentle you are.