With palm flat against the sheets
Sweeping the acreage of the bed
Feeling the springs beneath
The hollow weight of hand to
Something
Anything
For this hand longs to touch
Smooth, silken, unfamiliar
Remembered flesh
Poor man’s or otherwise
The hand turns round
Aware at least
That it is jointed to the smooth arm
The soft breast
The rounded belly
The dry crisp hair
And the waiting exhalation of breath.
eleanor j jackson 