4851. ALL THOSE HANDS

ALL THOSE HANDS

I can tell you straight what I think, or I can

take a long time, weaving a story, telling in

the end nothing really at all. It's all those hands

which go into the making. Were the Brooklyn

Navy Yard now to sink, where would they all

get their primo coffee from? Tell you straight?

They'd be lost or just go somewhere else.

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There's no necessity like the need for Life.

With each breath seems to come yet another

responsibility : I see you talking, and I hear you

seeing. How difficult can either be?

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The code-counter where I keep my medicine is

now under lock and key  -  there's a marshall coming

in from the state dispensary. I guess I'll need to

ask him what he thinks he's doing. The answer I

get will be quite the thing to hear. Or see. One

of those other conundrums I can certainly

live without. All those hands into the

building of nothing real at all. I wish

I was ten again.

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I need a congregation of my very own

now to preach unto. All those

hands will never do.