Glass in Hand

I’ve been thinking
about how my hand’s
ability to turn might
be a parable for
until it turns into
a fist, and then I’m set
to wondering whether it
might be akin to a comet
plunging toward the
earth – about to level
the playing field – setting
the anthropocene on its head.
And then one finger pokes out and
my hand is making me to be John the
Baptist, even though I’m loath to eat
locusts. When the middle finger
pops out, my hand can stand
in for scissors until the
third finger is made
to measure how
much Scotch is
to fill the
glass in
my hand.

4 thoughts on “Glass in Hand

  1. shoreacres says:

    What a perfectly delightful poem! Being accustomed to driving in Houston traffic, I was a little worried when that middle finger popped out, but once its scissor-like function was made clear, it cut right through my wrong assumption!

    I’ve never been a bourbon or scotch drinker, but my dad was, and the “three fingers” expression was one I grew up with. Good memories of fetching an occasional drink for him once I was “big enough.”

    • agjorgenson says:

      Any time one of my poems can bring forth a good memory, I am very glad. So thank you for sharing that! As for the middle finger alone, I am more inclined to say such things in the privacy of my vehicle than to show such things to the end of road rage, and I think that is for the best. Of course better still would be serenity…

      • shoreacres says:

        Especially in Houston traffic, a great deal of discretion is the better part of valor. I always assume I’m surrounded by people who might be even more irritated than I am, and I certainly wouldn’t want to add to their irritation!

  2. agjorgenson says:

    Seems like a wise choice!

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