Palms of two hands press
on Mourning eyes,
Plead with the dark to extend rest,
to hide from rising demands
of sun rays.
Outstretched arms above my head
Wave in empty space as in surrender.
Skin flaps embarrassingly loose.
Wrinkles etched like the grain
In an old oak floor promises character.
A comic taunt in mortal light,
Makes a wish for a new finish.
I roll to my side, wheeze and cough,
raise up pissed. Reluctant eyes
record the stark: the persistent battle
to render adjustment to my
aging constitution.
Feet meet the floor,
Surprised by a sturdy stance.
Four steps to the sink; I catch a glimpse
of sleep’s bare renovation in the bathroom mirror.
Splash cold water on a numb face:
an intervention to awaken some sense.
Familiar eyes query mine,
peers out — a mirror for me.
a gentle appearance,
earnest and longing,
two blue iris orbs or is it four?
Embedded in folds of skin wink at me.
Is this comic relief? A check on the who
and the whom — an interrogation of the
insider looking out or the outsider
staring in.
In the shower an old washcloth
hangs stiff as a bone,
mocks my worry
as if standing straight should make all
the difference :
How did I make eighty?
Wrinkles and all?
Happily breathing,
Unprepared as I am
to deal with a fall.
THH
9/15/25
Revised 9/18/25
Revised 12-30-25
Thoughts Have Hands 