Twirls

And each time you hang up,

my heart,

it breaks just a little bit;

as your calloused, hardened finger –

hardened by work, and hardened by play,

by the way it grips the paintbrush, by the way it guides the ball coming at it with agility and poise –

meets the red on the screen,

methinks,

that deserves my touch, my tender play,

with my hands, that guide it places,

with my fingers;

and you might not be able to help it –

what you had set out to do;

so can’t I.

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.