The Hand

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.