Arms

Arms make good hammers.
Doorboards know them:
nut-lustered, unabundant triangles
that crack in an inch,
that rattle the dangling brass
and loosen broad doors.

Arms are a heart's clock
(not pocket watches, knocking—
more a tock attack, or lack in tick).
Danced to a twelve-step,
arms drop to armlets—
fingers—they love to mingle
in the secondary minuets.

Arms make good legs.
Less to lug and lagging less—
in tag, such an army honorific
terrifically adapts. Plus a player
gets another lap, with hairy handles
(not to mention, complicated jumping jacks).

Susan Parr

Pacific Shooter
Pleiades Press