The Binding Unlike Tularecito,
I could never do amazing things
with my hands.
Beginning day one,
inflexible fingers
unfolding at obtuse angles,
a peasantÕs palms,
layer upon layer of
timid tendons.

My finest stick man
begged correction,
winding the First Communion
wristwatch
wound up being my fatherÕs
daily duty,
changing an old FordÕs
spark plugs
a mystery.
At eighteen,
fresh under the influence,
turnstile handles at
OsgoodÕs Kum & Go
condom vendor
froze to my touch,
dispensing a disappointing
end to IÕm gonna get lucky
night with Linda Lunn.
The same hands unable to hold
any womanÕs heart over
a week,
an inbred inability to
hang onto the weakest
of common sense capabilities.

Tonight,
driving the newest detour to
my parentsÕ home,
I discovered,
as the clear sky stars
sparkled like a
jewelerÕs
ornate display case,
my half-centuried hands
had a purpose:
to talk,
unwinding the tongue-tied
eyes of those
enslaved with unforgettable
pages of unspoken,
unprinted,
years of memories,
visions buried in
irregular midnight dreams,
some a blessing, some a
regret of being at the
wrong place a certain moment,
my hands,
speaking otherÕs languished lives,
pushing simple plastic keys,
adding a little decorum
to my disability.