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Poetry #136
(published May 29, 2003)
Hands (from Seven More Poems the Road Gave Up, part 3 of 7)
by Tom Sheehan

Somehow hands carry off
hard memories of handshakes.
They find solitude in pockets
and dark burials of lint.
Often they surprise thighs
surprising them with muscles.
Late afternoons, at brick labor,
they're apt to sneak home for rest.
Shovel handles give them polish;
pick handles, proud rind of callus.
They remember pine resin, horseshoes,
how crowbars throw selves backward.
Left hand has intimate recall
of fastball's inside threat;
right hand for a first stick shift
on a '46 black Ford convertible,
moments, it seems, after war was gone.
They lock magic behind another's back.
Hands give the sleight of messages
hanging passive as window weights.
They promote scabs and resolute scars,
toss knuckles out of position,
meet acquaintances abruptly;
flesh of lovers is a longer row.
When they fold finally, one on top,
nothing else is left for chance.

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The Next Poetry piece (from Issue #137):

Displacement (from Seven More Poems the Road Gave Up, part 4 of 7)
by Tom Sheehan

The Last few Poetry pieces (from Issues #135 thru #131):

What If (from Seven More Poems the Road Gave Up, part 2 of 7)
by Tom Sheehan

Nomenclature of Loss (from Seven More Poems the Road Gave Up, part 1 of 7)
by Tom Sheehan

by Jonathan Hayes

Like Eyes of the Tapster
by Jonathan Hayes

San Francisco, California
by Jonathan Hayes

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