As I lie beneath the lights of my stylish Italian endodontist,

my ears collect my tears.

Why am I in such good hands?

 

And with my family it is the same:

they wrap around me

their gentle hands.

 

In my doctors, who must treat my

bone marrow cancer and vertebral fractures,

I have the utmost confidence.

 

Their hands follow MRI, x-ray, blood test, skeletal survey

with unerring confidence

and their minds follow their hands.

 

Why, when I should be begging

outside some shack

having ruined numerous lives?

 

Is it because I read long ago

and underneath are the everlasting arms

and each arm has many hands?

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