Poem

The lesser twin,
The one whose accomplishments
And privileges are unshowy: getting to touch
The tattoo on my right shoulder.
Wearing the mitt.

I feel its familiar weight and textures
As the adroit one rests against it for a moment.
They twine fingers.

Lefty, continues to experience considerable
Difficulty expressing himself clearly
And correctly in writing.

Comparison with his brother prevents him
From putting forth his best effort.

Yet this halt one too has felt a breast, thigh,
Clasped an ankle or most intimate
Of all, the fingers of a hand.

And possibly his trembling touch,
As less merely adept and confident,
Is subtly the more welcome of the two.

In the Elysian Fields, where every defect
Will be compensated and the last
Will be first, this one will lead skillfully
While the other will assist.

And as my shadow stalks that underworld
The right hand too will rejoice--released
From its long burden of expectation:
The yoke of dexterity finally laid to rest.