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Good Bones

Eyeballing the train: gazes of strangers
crosshatch, lock in middle distance.
He gets in at 28th, sits across from me.
I avoid his eyes, though his hands
are fair game and what hands.

His hands poke out of his chambray
sleeves like birds, the color of milk
They lounge on a woolen knee, unposed, languid.

The long fingers make you think:
good bones and the veins aren't blue but
bas-relief, straight, even as man-made rivers.
He wears rings, three silver rings on his (oh) right hand.

(I see him playing a piano — Bach —
later he'll play Joplin and we'll go a little crazy)

My stop, I stand and throw a glance:
his face? Simian. Artistic. Nowhere

as good as his hands
so on the way out I pick them up
and take them with me.

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