kid gloves

in a certain way, our hands and the expressions we create with them limit or extend our connections to the world. i think our link to the animal world is very different than what binds our souls into Humanity and it is the search for these distinctions, to step outside of ourselves, that determines the success of our brief time on this planet.

there is an aquarium in my house

with fish who never wave when

I hover above the water, waiting to drop food flakes.

humble and unaware, they have

no right or left, can’t hold a bat,

and would strike out on the third pitch

despite their lower jaws, forever in a bulldog’s snarl at home plate.

without thumbs or aspirations,

they can’t hitchhike, they’ll never pass the butter,

and will forget your birthday.

my hands, tools, are for this poem; ordering

pizza; shoveling my driveway.

these covered, calloused palms; missing humanity,

afraid to wave to that guy walking the dogs in our neighborhood,

who,

reaching out for love,

sees only the kid gloves hiding the tendrils of my soul.