My hands fell off today On Commercial Street Where I’m not exactly sure Near the post office Or the pub, silver dog bowls On the path outside With that algal taint For mongrels dispensing oracles A lolling tongue and lambent eyes Lantern bright and bemused as a lamb Finding in each passing imbroglio A curl-lipped growl Or cruel and doting master – He’ll take yer arm off at the sleeve If you pat him – I shrug in reply No hands, you see Just a raddled sleeve I think I saw them on the verge Over there - rat scurrying But when I proffer, to my chagrin My much vaunted ignorance With a vacillating gesture From the ends There they are Pale, sick anemones Against a tide of mournful howls In full bloom
