..

building

The Lego figure was so puny against my palm.
Sliding on the callouses. These are my hands?

They couldn’t be the same ones that built castles
perched atop couches. (How they towered over me

on the rug.) The same busted thumbs that betrayed
every dribble. Loved to sprain against pebbled leather.

Fingers that couldn’t tie laces but could still collar tie,
wrapped up the ocky way. Those same digits that filled

mittens that swung the refrigerator wide open, and pulled
back, heels rocking, the groan of a sinking ship shifting

two degrees away from crushing a boy with Le Creuset
and blueberry cartons. They were in the diner, gripping

Rick’s right hand and twisting for a bite of bread pudding.
Him demanding to see the left after. One empty saucer

and an unfinished job. Such big, clumsy hands
searching through these little plastic pieces.