My hand writes lists
it deftly stacks and straightens the shabby corners
my hand does chores
it drives the car
my hand is responsible, but
my hand writes poems
how very curious.
While doing this non-thing
time flows by
without compartments to keep it safely.
Other hand things go undone
I am tossing words into a hand basket
shaking well
and spilling  images to and fro,
usually messy,
usually disturbing
usually destroying careful continuity.
After the poetry
my and is very busy cleaning up.