Waiting hands

waiting hands pass the time
old scraps pulled tight into new threads
cake cooling on its wire rack
listening to murder books on CD
I realize my hunger for that
for being read to
someone to talk
without expectation of response
someone’s breast to listen through
acoustic bouncing in rib cages
deepening waves of sound
that simply wind their comforting way around me
and tuck me in for the night
the missing of that childhood lulling
the longing for a lover to whisper me to sleep
for now I’ll settle for books on tape
the readers unaware of the false intimacy I steal away
from them
eating that stolen, overripe fruit with gusto
waiting for my own tree to blossom with it
stitch, stitch, stitch, waiting hands


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