Palms are unbreakable cups, lithe and elastic,
And safe out of the shelves of spray-on-jeans.

Always, you pose them before the blue kettle,
And little drops in dribs and drabs, no satiation.

Fancy he in rags reaches your doorsteps, hoping
To hydrate his withered tongue from them anon.

You pelt one of them at him like the tethered ball;
for him it's a knife; he damns you and draws back.

They're the speaking toys for the child for its tears,
And they clank when he gropes for them at your "no".