Unclean Hands

Unclean Hands
emerging from a porta-potty

the poet is greeted 

by seven peers

pondering 

his hygiene.

“What hand?”one wonders.

“And why?”one woes.

“I’m skeeved,” one grieves 

staring idly at the sun.

Two others go gradually

on their way. 

One stops to chat

the other to listen.

The two gradually walking

wave from a distance. 

The blind one feels

his way back home

to the business of spying

great moments w/unclean hands.

Shit. Piss. Blood. Ink.

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