Hand Power: A poem

Hand Power
By Dave Turner

Looking down at my hands,
I know they're attached to a man
who could take a gun
and grip it with these fingers
that have mostly tickled ivory.

All it would take is one moment,
a single impulse that pulls the trigger,
and my hands would be motionless forever,
eventually disappearing
along with all that is troubling me.

But maybe it'll be better to keep life
flowing through these odd extremities,
touch the white and black
selections from the eighty-eight,
and feel the carnival rise,
fill my lungs with air
and feel the power of my voice.

These odd extremities
may well be quite unconventional 
in how they look from across the universe.
They may appear as strange digits,
primitive claws that do pointless exercise
on a box that makes sound.

At the moment I'd like to stick around,
have another go with a piece of furniture
that often bears its black and white teeth
in the corner, daring me to touch those incisors.

But I know they won't bite me.
They will open up my world
and take my being from inside my body
to another connected place
where passion rules the day and the night.


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