Weekend Requests

If my hands become soiled,
as they tend to do in
crowded spaces, please
point me towards a sink and soap.
And don't wait outside the door.
I'll be a while.

If my eyes become wicked, if a storm
takes shape, please
don't back away. That would only
kill the hope that sleeps behind
my lightning irises.

If my jacket gets caught,
on a doorknob, a wayward chair,
a toothy grin, please don't wander
far. A standard indent will keep
me comforted. A paragraph or more
and I'm lost for good.

And whatever words my tongue writes,
please white them out.