Hands
the first thing I noticed.
A Smith, with the hands of a painter.
Striking me first as someone who would prefer a ball to a pen,
A phone to a book.
But his hands suggest a delicate part of his life.
A part maybe less troubled than mine,
and a little more appreciative than mine.
Dark soft eyes,
a warm entrance into the mind,
but often he looks away from me,
so that I cannot quite fit into that entrance.
The persona, the mask, the cataract,
He hung an old sheet on the window,
a few slits,
maybe a few have even gotten past it.
Sporty Smith on the outside,
He matches no season,
and forgets to decorate himself in life.
A grey cubicle but in the corner I see a blues guitar.
A white picket fence who is secretly a rock climber,
A wife and two kids who likes to drag race.
There is a bulk of normality in him,
and a hint of adventure.
A helicopter movie at the bachelor party.
What a trustworthy guy!
Decent grades, decent life, embarrassed, and mature.
And his words suggest a vocabulary of a well read college student.
His portrayal of himself is confusing.
Like a hipster vegan Lion.
He doesn't make sense.
And yet he is a whole person.
When he spoke to me his words crystallized in his mouth,
his shoulders slump forward,
as if he were dragging through an unfortunate thought,
his tone understanding and enthusiastic.
A decent bedtime I assume,
and the possibility of insomnia is present.
A few friends, and no musical preference.
And once he smiled when we spoke,
and his teeth as white as his words,
The image of a good dentist’s hand
and a smoker's dream.
He moves his head when he talks,
n’ twirling in his chair,
like a blonde girl and a string of her hair,
he twists back and forth.
He does not move his hands when he talks.
His Hands.
Softer hands than mine.
Soft as the new velvet record album cover.
His hands own my attention.
The hands of glove owners, velveteers, cake decorators,
and clearly,
the hands of a writer.