Hands of Cheese

There were no birds

soaring the dimlit morning sky,

that day the man

first became aware

of the ply of his disease.

There was no warning,

that dogless morning,

when his hands began to turn to cheese.


The man was struck by several questions:

  1. From what kind of cheese were his hands made?
  2. Could one survive on a diet comprised

entirely of his hands?

  1. Would his hands mold?
  2. About the remainder of his body…


The man could find no answers.

He worried about work.

And what would his friends say?

Could he ever convey to them

the agonies

of hands of cheese?


The Lady of Rats

was trying on hats in her flat

on that tragic afternoon,

That Saturday afternoon when her cat— Siamese,

was overran

by the man with the hands of cheese.


Lady of Rats ran screaming from her flat,

to her cat,

which lay dead in the street;


“You killed my cat, you lumber Jack,

Why your hands…

They’re made of cheese !”


A silence hung between the two

like an amber cannonball,

As the man considered the possibilities.

But the Lady of Rats she knew

Opportunities like that

never grew on trees.

And, quick as sand,

she devoured the man’s hands of cheese.


The moral:

If one shows his hand,

It could get chewed off.


Fall 1975

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *