nimble, printed digits
topped with buds, like roses
crowned with sharp and polished blades
whirling, swirling waves of touch

oceans of perception
entrenched in synapse,
like wires in warm goo
ensnare vast depths of lines

links that bulge like widgets
that bend and twist
like snakes be-called to jive
and jitter in the air of notions
to grab and flail
with monkey shines

weathered cracks, enfolded
with scars, deep furrows cross
that desert plane commands the grip
a fleshy, meaty paw

a stout outsider, resolved to be
opposed, a rapt vagrant
ready at a an instant
to crab and pinch

to finish such a tool
of manifold uses
as
the hand

This Old Hand

© 2024 Bob Lee