by Joseph Mazzola
Or,
I could leave
my wrists elsewhere.
On distant plains
or,
maybe still trailing along I-65
or,
nowhere I could remember.
Somewhere along
the way, someone
lied to you.
My hands
can do anything
but it is my wrists
that can find or lose everything.
I promise you,
it’s a sign of strength.
Left to simply
limp
around.
Or,
I could leave
my wrists elsewhere.
On distant plains
or,
maybe still trailing along I-65
or,
nowhere I could remember.
Somewhere along
the way, someone
lied to you.
My hands
can do anything
but it is my wrists
that can find or lose everything.
I promise you,
it’s a sign of strength.
Left to simply
limp
around.