These hands

These hands, today,

Are not mine, surely.

They make the motions,

So demurely.

Minding their own purpose, purely.

Bent on insurrection.

Brush my teeth with shaving cream.

Comb my hair with Vaseline.

Perhaps it all is just a dream,

But in the wrong direction.

Coffee mug all prepped and ready.

Loopy legs are still unsteady.

Grind the beans, they smell so heady.

The nose detects perfection.

Pouring water, I’m betrayed.

The rebel digits, they have played

Another trick, and I’m afraid

Of mutinous defection.

The coffee beans, they’ve put into

My oatmeal dish, to make a stew.

There is no other point of view!

This surely needs correction.

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