I feel the moment of my arms
Hanging from bone levers off my spine.
They sway like untethered booms,
Why are they made so long?
I use the ends of them for
Cracking eggs, gripping handles,
Pressing keys. But the length?
My arms have become strong
From so much pulling. But
Reaching for ghosts and swinging at spirits,
Seems a misuse of their geometry.
And when I lie down to rest, what
Arrangement can I make for them?
They must simply shift about with
The sole task of avoiding the rest of me.
I have found these and other uses for my arms:
Gain a shelf.
Swim a stroke.
Bend an oar.
Hoist a bale.
Bar an entrance.
I could use them for balance I suppose, but
I rarely find myself standing on edges these days.
I tried once to find a place for them
Over your shoulders, around your body.
They go here I thought,
I will use them to hold you.
But you had arms of your own and
They had other tasks assigned.