By Charles Springer

My right hand is writing a letter to the hand it held last night at the showing of

My Left Foot. My right arm is stretched to the limit not quite three feet

counting the distance from my shoulder to a felt tip where it articulates Dear

someone or other. As the writing is small, a six on a font scale, and my eyes

cannot read aloud, the fold of my brain that records flitters and flutters

records my hand’s heart as it spills and spells out its guts. My brain

cannot speak at all and my mouth must not have been doing its part

or my right hand wouldn’t be writing to some hand it has more than just touched.

My mouth must have had its tongue in an ear when nothings weren’t enough.

My mouth deservedly got slapped by a hand out of nowhere and is shut,

grounded for two months, and two times a day my left hand washes it out with soap

and talks to it like a puppet, telling it not what my right hand has written thus far

but the “sorry” an ear likes to hear. My mouth always wanted its own ear

to stick its tongue into. My ear always wanted its own acoustic guitar and amp

and ten fingers. Here, near the bottom, the one line one eye can make out

says my right hand wants to “squeeze you until you drop off, watch you

walk on two fingers, tackle Ravel’s Left Hand Concerto on the spinet!”

Up until now I was under the impression my right hand was only good for a fist.

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