Impaired

A man beside me dutifully picks up smooth, 

round stones. We speak of his several surgeries. 

His hand still looks cupped. He says 

he used to correct the put-together furniture 

that came in a box. The directions were often 

wrong. He would try to make it right, 

then wind up throwing the whole thing away. His wife 

put a stop to this. A few feet away, the physical 

therapist is making me a new hard plastic brace

for the left hand. Sleek, unlike the compression

bandage that looked Clampett like and picked up

soil. My hands are being warmed beneath white towels.

The therapist's assistant is an undergraduate 

who plays rugby. We talk of the Olympics.

I tell about my gymnast niece. The woman

to my left is a friend from the other day,

who presently is twirling what looks like a toy

to strengthen her wrists. She has carpal tunnel

without symptoms. She wished me a good weekend. 

This place is like a pretty school filled with smart, 

kind teachers. We students have full lives. 

We're dutiful and care. Keep our appointments. 

Do homework. And move slowly, 

gather threads of understanding. 

We remember to move slowly. 

With hope. That we may last.