Nerves
Dear Nerves,
Blame I cast,
to you.
When I meet someone new
and
reach out to shake their hand
A customary tradition-
By all,
but a few.
Can they,
please,
overlook
my sweaty palms?
Wipe quickly,
be discrete.
Do you think he-
noticed?
Does she-
have me beat?
I suppose I was never that great of a sneak-
no cheat.
Still moist.
I clap my thighs repeatedly,
airing.
Fan out the fans.
If only I could hold a water bottle.
A master disguise.
Oh, ‘tis only condensation.
To no avail.
I notice him
wipe his hands
on his
buttoned up shirt,
After contact
with my
own.
Maybe,
He and I,
since I can’t call us we,
can shake hands again.
In the comfort of my home
And, maybe,
Maybe,
he can wait till I have exercised
‘Till I have the endorphins rushing
'Till the sweat and I are done blushing
‘Till I have showered
Soaped down.
Maybe
if he won’t bother striking conversation
Maybe
If he and I sit in comfortable silence
Maybe
If he make no moves to touch me with his lips
Maybe
If he doesn’t grip my hips like handlebars
Maybe
If he and I-
don’t make contact, at all.
Maybe
If we watch the television screen-
In opposite caves
In opposite worlds.
Maybe,
He won’t
wipe his hands then.
Next time he and I make physical acquaintance
He will nod his head.
A curtsey,
And certainly,
A courtesy.
Cringing upon the last interaction,
He knows not to shake the slimy.
Leave the slimy sausages in the fridge,
Or, in the ocean,
Normal,
amongst fish.
Maybe,
Fine,
in an oyster stew.
You, nerves, could implant a virus into me.
Maybe,
I’ll create a pearl,
before death.
This virus could make me forget my social concerns.
I could focus on internal,
rather than external,
discomforts.