Those Hands

Hobo Moon

The hands that once pointed in every direction
Have failed to move since she gave it away,
And though the band is much to tight,
He still wears it every day.
It helps him to remember that moonless night.
That night he tried to make her stay.
Losing himself in his own reflection,
He remembers the words that she used to say,
The sweet reverberation,
Trembling from her lips in exasperation.
Eyes lost in a distant fading memory,
Like fog dissipating with the arrival of the day,
He stares at his watch,
Waiting,
For those hands
Hoping,
To continue
Stuck in the past,
Their ritualistic dance.
Those hands.
Salvador Dalí’s painting Persistence of Memory, 1931.

7 Comments

  1. My absolute pleasure friend. You must not have framed it around the work, but it complements your poem very well. You’ve taken a wise decision choosing it.
    As you now explain what the poem is, it seems to get better. Love how life inspires poetry.
    Take care.

  2. Thank you so much for the kind words. I didn’t actually frame the poem around Dali’s artwork, but thought it paired nicely with it. It’s actually based on a real person whom I loved and actually gave me a watch. Thanks for reading, sweetheart:)

  3. Wow mate. This is beautiful. Firstly, such an amazing choice of artwork. You frame your poem so beautifully around Dali’s artwork.
    “Like fog dissipating with the arrival of the day,”
    Beautiful. Serene. A little dark too, but a treat to us readers. Wow.

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