His Hand Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

His hand

Pass through and across
after call to set time
as arrived must show card
they know us by photos
by numbers…as is a prisoner
as is the animal with its mark
burned or cut…

The old days are long gone
no knowing by tribe
nothing left, not at all.

I sit and look at him,
he is old; my doctor,
his soft hand in writing
is moving and shaking.

When he ends I wonder…

In this age he works and
many youths are searching,
patients have no medic;
for new in this field
only hell is waiting.

And I see
And I think:
“What are we? ”