The Blind Man

Persona poem experiment.
Sensory detail, sensory deprivation.
100+ words.
Ready, set, go!


He lived by hands,
their calluses or chapped knuckles,
a tender hangnail,
the number of rings and rocks
and whether they were cold
(from being outdoors)
or slipped with sweat
(from being shoved shyly into a pocket).

The cashier at the QP?
Hands like stone, frigid as
overdry air,
calamity of counterspace,
muck of coinage.

The double shift waitress at the Waffle House?
Sticky, swollen fingers.
A touch of strawberry
syrup from arranging the condiments along the bar.
She routinely cupped his hand in hers
when counting his change,
Eleven that’s ten and one,
the sift of bills, musty smell,
And fifty seven, that’s 25, 25, and two,
clink clink.

Many hands later,
he’d raise his own to his nostrils,
smell her strawberry kisses,
invoking the rings of her voice,
That’s 25, 25, and two.

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