The hands are a broken place to be when there is nothing to touch,

my hands are not hands without something to impress,

concrete, bone, teeth, grab, grab, grabbing

for daffodils that no longer laugh,

for nocturnal bluebirds,

and tin-men filled with lemon-yellow moxie

in slices of a pie, I have only had one without weight

I’ve heard jazz before, but not quite like this

it moves like a woman, like the woman I’d rather be

sass with class, and legs that make walking look like honey burning

and only when your breath between words falls on my breasts

could I ever unzip leather, and flush the fear of my inner Marilyn

Of course I play in the thoughts that this is abandoned

of all the whiskey and all the wolves,

that a greater resolve is held liable, some grandiose gavel beating,

the internal clock we’ve been pacing ourselves to,

and it has been some-time now,

Still, my hands remain nothing but wrists with growths,

ten tiny songstresses attached lookin’ to grab

ten minuscule voices stretching for gold,

met by ten commandments whipping them back,

and holding their outlandish destinations hostage.   

[Paying the cost to the boss, BB King - INspired.]