The roll of a dices

Give me a Hand


A point with hairs 

It’s rough and smooth

But hard within. 

A microchip skin overlapping. 

It’s cold but warm with feeling. 

A fitted glove 

It’s amazing with its multiplications

Five, ten, calculating digits. 


A gripping device,

A kaleidoscope of colours;

Pink, black, brown, blue spots

Dotted here and there. 


Taken for granted,

Stretching like elastic - 

A safety device

With a knuckle-duster -

A fist of anger!

I recoil - a lifting tool.


Time to say “Hello,

It’s nice to meet you,”

To the other pinky on my hand. 


A bionic machine of instant responses, 

A golden circle of promises and love. 


I point to the sky as I grip the steering wheel

And accidentally slit my skin

Fashioning a cut. 

Deeply I hurt with a plaster. 


A means of signing for the deaf 

And a touch for the blind. 

Tom Thumb rests by my side 

With fingers crossed for good luck. 


The little one on the end 

The land of plenty 

With a sparkle I wave to my friend.

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