RIGHT NOW

the rhythm of a manual transmission.

the cat drinking long and hard from the fishtank.

the sun sanitizing the kitchen through an open door.

beeswax spilling through a crack in the tabletop.

hands weathered and dry from the constant washing.

waking from a dream, slipping in again to find something.

coming back to stand in love instead of falling.

HANDY

if idle hands are

the devil’s playground

then my hands are

always busy reaching

for something slippery

which itself can be

another kind of hell

but to merely hold on

for safe keeping?

I’m afraid the devil might see

my fingers as a jungle gym

my palm his merry-go-round

the line of my knuckles like a slide