Dear Dr Zamboni

I can no longer
straighten my fingers
but grope to the edge of
anything, a table, the mattress
to force them straight.
Once acquiescent infantry,
now alienated, obstinate,
disconnected rebels, frustratingly
refusing their accepted duties.

I can no longer touch to feel.
Skin could be silk or leather,
anything smooth.
Hair, course to my fingers now, I know
from memory, is soft.

I am morphosis in slow motion,
fruit caught rotting reluctantly
in time lapse sequence
collapsing lushly.
A flower falling from its former glory
so languidly it is beautiful to see.
The abrupt realization that some
banked-on ability
is absent without leave
and no knowledge of when it left.

Modern medicine is no use to me and
I don't expect my legs to report
for duty once more
or my feet to dance again
but if you could help me keep just
one hand to feed and wash,
to hold a book or touch a face
it would mean so much.