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?