hands of absalom

poem by Anonymous

His hands fumble,
Struggle;
Wrapped in thick mittens of self doubt.
Shaken to the core.
The egg cracks in his grasp
The pencil tip will not remain straight.

It’s two weeks later,
And his mind may forget –
From time to time –
But his body
Will always remember
How she left him in that room:
Weak. Naked. And impotent.

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