A Stalemate Poem by RIC BASTASA

I do not give thanks to the hands that feed me

I work for those
Hands anyway
Writing his letters
His own contents
Not to my delight

I love somebody else, her hands are soft
Her thoughts so graceful
Touching me
Penetrating the deepest recesses of my brain
My soul jumps with joy
To the sight of her,

She eats me, I am half-consumed yet I
Sing of her
Kiss her all day

Yet what does she give me?

This death unto myself,

The hands that feed me caress me to no end
Helping me live, I understand this kindness perfectly

How I wish to love the feeding hands
How I wish to reeducate myself & learn to live on these hands

I am hardheaded, as always thinking about her all day all night long.
The heart has its own foolish reasons, while the feeding hands

Are patient, and silent, understanding my true longings.