Palms of two hands press
down on Mourning eyes,
Plead with the dark to extend night’s rest,
to hide from rising demands
of sun rays.
Arms stretch up above my head
to empty space as in surrender.
Skin flaps embarrassingly loose.
Wrinkles etched like fine grain
on an old wooden floor
promises character.
A comic taunt in mortal light,
makes a passing 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 bathroom sink; I
catch a glimpse of sleep’s
bare renovation in the mirror.
Splash cold water on a numb face:
an intervention to awaken some sense of direction.
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 seem to
wink at me.
Is this comic relief? a check for the who
and the whom — an interrogation of the
insider looking out or the outsider
staring back.
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 it to 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 