A Call to Hands
We’ve all stopped reaching.
We are comfortable,
Using our hands to prop the pillows
That stifle the truth.
Hiding under the downy fluff
Some people live–
In our own backyard–
A buck fifty a day,
The rumbling in their stomachs
Overpowered by the sound of our social procrastination,
Fingers stuck in privileged ears, refusing to realize.
Refusing to realize that,
Within years, our glass country could shatter
Our hands left to pluck the shards with naïve fingers
From the wounds we were warned about.
That’s what you called me when I told you we could make a change.
Well, you’ve stopped dreaming.
And I can’t really listen to you.
But I can reach for your hands,
The ones you threw up in exasperation
At making a difference.
What can I do?
And there go those hands,
Towards the sky
Like a pair of cowardly pigeons.
Let’s start by changing your mind.
Only then can hands leave pockets
Like a chain of five fingered dominos,
We set the reaction:
Calling all hands!
This is a call to hands!
Un-callused and inexperienced hands–
Raise not towards the sky in defeat,
But towards one another.
This is a call to hands.