He said my touch was soft,

         Gentle, the hands of a babydoll.

But he didn’t know how much

         They shook. How come that

Didn’t leave a mark, didn’t

          Mar the skin with callauses?

They wrung themselves dry,

           Holding my head, pressed under

My legs--all to stop the constant

           Murmur of jangling keys that

Coursed through them.