Your Handprints Are In Poem by Mark Money
Your Handprints Are In
your handprints are in
cement outside i saw them as i came in.
but i want to tell you-
someone's not taking care of them.
there are dead bugs in the index finger
of your left hand, and a dirty napkin
in your palm.
the recesses where you signed your name
haven't been swept in at least a week
and if i was you, i think i'd tell the manager.
© (1980—Tulsa, OK)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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6/2/2024 3:19:10 AM # 1.0.0.1119
