I’d pick up a spoon
in my left hand,
and they’d take it
and put it in my right.
I was small, very small,
probably no bigger
than a hobo’s bindle.
They’d look down at me
while I slept
and shake their heads.
Where they came from,
liars and arsonists
were left-handed.
I’d pick up a block
in my left hand,
and they’d take it
and put it in my right.
Now sometimes
when I start to reach
for what I want,
I’ll stop suddenly
and wonder
whose hand this is.
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