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Though I’ve always

been right-handed,

I’m a left-handed

shot with the puck.

I also hit

left and hope the ball

will clear the fence

like something fired

from a cannon.

And my left fist’s

in the air

whenever a boxer

scores a knockout,

always looking out

for the next Ali.

It’s November,

and you note I

rake from the left,

reach up for your tea-

cup while my right hand’s

lying flatly by my side,

lazy as a cat

in a siesta,

always resting

for the moment

that it’s summoned

into action,

like a sprinter

awaiting the bang

of a commencing gun,

feet in the starting

blocks, digits

behind the line,

asses in the air.

It’s not the hand

but the brain

I’ve been informed,

that our wrists and palms

and fingers are merely

puppets for our


that the hemisphere

on my left births


this poem,

for instance,

its fixation

on flowered


that if left

to my right

it would be

methodical, numerical,

open to cold


deprived of

a turn of phrase,

a one-in-a-

million metaphor,

a twist at the finish line,

like an M. Night

Shyamalan film,

that Bruce

Willis would have never

pulled it off,

his being a ghost

without us knowing ,

had the director

been a southpaw

on the mound,

striking out

the side

with the meanest

curling spitball

ever seen.

Andreas Gripp

November 23, 2023

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