I have always been left-handed.
Everybody knows what that means.
My first grade teacher tried to change it
Until my mother told her what was what.
I wanted to give my teacher a dress.
See, left-handed.
Just now, I was drawing a portrait of The Reaper,
The face so horrible that I covered the paper
With my right hand, the face
A kind of Exquisite Corpse-Maker.
I could tell without looking how horrible it was,
A glaring Nosferatu.
But something happened, was happening.
I lifted one finger on my (right) hand
And saw the leer changed, first slightly,
Then into a lovely Maurice Sendak monster smile.
I lifted my entire (right) hand and saw the face
Now changed into a kindly, horse-faced George Eliot,
Then a sly Norman Rockwell peeking around his canvas.
Hey, your face became so genial I could invite
You to share a picnic table full of boiled crawfish,
Break a loaf of ciabatta together with me,
Split a pitcher of beer down at the corner tavern.
My man, you can come on over whenever you’re ready.
Richard Sale is Professor Emeritus of English at the University of North Texas.
He is the editor of the Trilobite Press, which publishes poetry, fiction, and plays. His latest poetry collection is FREEZE AND THAW (Incindio Press).
