I Who Am Turning
thoughts
on a dime
into a man
who, if he says he
grows radishes
will grows radishes
the small dial on your
second-hand
watch
hardly pinched
awkwardly as it sounds
between my helpless thumb
and middle finger
one year older
to every seven
of your
in-need-of-bath
dog
will shave
the bearded stubble
from my face
with the blade of your skate
on which you turn
figures
eights looped like bows
even a Russian judge
would warrant a
10
I who am turning
joined at the elbows
like a square-dancer
in knee-high socks
numbers on my
brown
rotary phone
whose cord kinks
and bunches near
the wall
whistled notes
double-jointed
into the wind
throwing the sound
behind me
trill and glorious
dexterous
digits showing no
signs of
opposition
will walk
round the corner
with you
crawl
if I must
© 2010 andrew kooman
