when i wake,
my hands are asleep again.

i lie there for a moment,
waiting for them to move,
but the heavy limbs
crossed on my chest
seem to have other plans.

i imagine spending the day
with the stubborn mallets,
a blind robot swinging his hands
in a futile search for feeling.

i see the surprise in the dogs’ eyes
when i tap them goodbye
with a careful bonk
before i head off to work.

there i will forge and hammer
a missive to the staff,
perhaps something inspirational and uplifting:

Jhdefokjh,

Dfsdfs ths fgdsdo f werdfg, Wd rtg ertg efw dfwssx dd
fdiom mkw s addfotly dfsd sdd plkutys, iju qwwe sdwer
fe ythery jkdfd fyw griuys.

-Sdgduog

but no one will say a thing.

i will gaze out my window
at the clog of morning traffic
finally running down to the capillaries,

when my fingers will awaken,
remembering a strange dream,

something about the fineness of hair,
the smile or her eyes,
the small of her back.