Left-Handed Morning

The avocado, green and hard,

it won the war.

My right hand, bandaged, plays its card,

can't hold a thing anymore.

So this left one, awkward, tries to spread

the butter, thick and cold.

It feels like something in my head

that's new, or very old.

The pen then, foreign in its grip,

a child's uncertain scrawl.

My name, a lurch, a clumsy slip,

a signature about to fall.

It's not mine, this cramped, uncertain loop,

this sudden, unfamiliar need.

Just a hand, a quiet, clumsy scoop,

sowing a strange and painful seed.