sometimes i look over and see
my left arm dangling, falling
over the railing on the stairs
and when i go to scratch my back
i can’t reach from all the way
over there. stretching my fingers
across the room really is a long
way to go for an itch that won’t
stop. or in a business meeting i
feel those needles, staples, pinecones
of my legs telling me to uncross them,
but my leg is tangled in the
chandelier. a piece of artwork for
show. and watching my favorite movie next
to you in the cold living room as my
bad habit takes over and my ring finger
needs to be relieved, cracked—pulled
apart and off of me. but it’s already gone.
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