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