Hand-dipped—
Not ice cream, but a koan:
What’s the proper response
to random kindness?
Consider a lost cell phone,
the utter panic of lost numbers,
a reminder you’ve given
the capacity to remember
your connections to a machine.
And then: reprieve:
it’s found quickly, with ease, delivered
gracefully by a calm, steady fellow.
So: what then? A handshake?
Or blow job?
O this continuum of gratitude.
I’m often lost
midway on that spectrum.
I extend a hand, this hand
toward you, expectant
ready for you turn away
or take me up on it.
Cup your hand: it’s the sign
for the idea of a cell phone.
Put it to your ear, think seashell.
My love is in the middle there
infinite as the ocean,
the dipping gesture of loss and thanks.
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