My hand moves without
My cues like it has got a brain.
Its itch often hops on to scratch-
A compulsive habit of exploration.
It browses my back, brushes
My hair. Reaches my groin,
Just check if everything is
Alright.
Duels with fingers of the
Other hand, picks on the nails.
Sometimes reaches the foot
To dig into the toenails.
The pinky finger loves mining
It seems. A couple of times daily,
It has to dive in my ear to dig
Into the wax, which eventually-
Is rubbed off to the chair,
Wall, windowpane, or the table.
The other digits are no less.
The thumb and the forefinger,
Form an alliance to reach my nose,
Like a search party for missing
Ammunition.
The booger that's found is rolled
Into a wad to be catapulted
Towards the distal wall.
And it coincidentally to hit,
A Housefly-
The entire species must have
Slipped into an illusion that
They're on the movie sets of
The director Rajamouli sir.