I have very little feeling in my fingertips, so hand sewing is close to impossible. Part of it is MS, part of it is age. But drop a coffee bean, a pea, or a needle: all are difficult to pick up. Hence, this poem:
Once in St Louis, a woman sat on a bench.
Tired, I sat on the other end
My shoulder oblique to her.
Into my silence, she spoke
When you are old your fingertips
Are smooth. You have no
Fingerprints. I laughed, mused aloud.
Then’s the right time for a criminal career
I’ll leave no trace behind.
As a native American, she said,
I know these things.
That was all.
Today my needle fell to the floor
I failed to pick it up, my fingertips
Too smooth.
My criminal career begins.
I’ll leave no trace behind.
I know these things.