Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Hurry up, Hurry up

My hands
won’t do what
I want them to,
my fingers are
I used to play the piano -
Bach fugues
and Chopin,
won a box of chocolates
by finding at a baby shower,
in record time,
the most safety pins
buried in a bowl of gleaming, uncooked rice.
I crocheted , quilted,
with small, even stitches,
knitted a warm, wool, striped scarf -
crimson, brown, and beige -
for my spouse
who took for granted,
as I did,
my prettily crimped pie crusts,
and paintings of roses
and a delicate, wrought-iron gate.

My longhand was
as legible as The Book of Kells
compared to the shriveled-cobweb scrawl
I struggle with today,
as I try to

write a readable check,
put paper money neatly in a wallet,
clutch a Kleenex,
take it from a pocket,
open my old, gold, heart-shaped locket,
pull on white sneaker-socks,
shuffle cards,
without feeling pressure
from inside
to hurry up, hurry up.
And I waver in the wind
when I walk.

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