Her Hand © 2008 Rob Lock

Like a lizard she thinks, looking at it
pressed against the wall, sunning itself.

But that would be still: one of these fingers
flexes. Rings click against the plasterboard
dividing this room from the next,
where her husband snores.

The line sounds live but nobody speaks.
She thinks of her father, wonders
what he would want to say, if the dead
were allowed a certain number of calls.
Something he couldn’t find words for?

Dog-eared, brushed against, felt
more than seen: her son’s photo in her purse.
He emails, phones sometimes, sometimes
when not needing money. She reads the stars,
the ads, but will not leave.
This is her hand.