By Christopher Michel
Remarkable, rotating rolling wrists.
Unsung, director of hands,
conductor of music.
Without you,
the arm falls silent,
and hands lose their purpose.
Pen, Paintbrush, baton, keyboard, phone;
Caressing, brushing, touching, grasping.
Millions of magnificent motions,
Choreographed to perfection;
performed without applause.
Until one day,
after years of neglect,
you cry out in pain.
And the music stops.