It’s nice to be a man
Whose stumps recede his hands –
For the hands’ less-thereness receives awareness
That demands less company-bareness.
In other terms, two stumps in turn
Sprout Friends in compensation.
I have Friends who sign my checks
For Friends who buy my food;
Friends who shave my pecs
For Friends who snap my nudes.
I have Friends who wash my back
And Friends who bow my hair,
Friends who fluff my sack –
Friends who wipe my derrière
While Friends who feed me soups
As other Friends play chimes
Watch Friends who shoot my hoops
Near Friends who pick my limes.
It’s nice to be a chap
As handily capped as I
Since loneliness desists at the end of my wrists
And begins with others’ fine fists.
So let their hands meet my demands
In Charity’s selfish bliss!
I have Friends that scratch my back
As my weight rides on theirs;
Friends who build my couch
Though I burn their chairs;
Friends who mow my lawn
While I piss in their pool
When Friends who write my papers
Don’t comprehend they’re tools.
But the Friends who please me true
Praise me as one select
From handless birth, honored to
Deify my defect.
Still I confess
I’ve seen ailments born from less –
And from that vantage they take advantage
Of even more than I profess.
Morning's Early Dark 