Sunday Scribblings: Left & Right

My sides fight
over who is
more right
for my pen,
my collapsing
cartwheels, tilted
pitches, nervous
at-bats.


Of course, Right
believes she (he?)
is right. Left lives
in shadowy breath,
exists as the cracked
crutch: I lean left

when Right grows
tired of my neediness.
Left listens, is the
neglected friend,
but holds asdf for me,
balances the cup
to hold the spoon,

is a team player.
Is willing to work
together with Right,

but they still,
still, for years more,
I am sure -- fight.

I am not
ambiguously-sided,
my dexterities
live angrily

but utlimately,
must listen
for their cues,
to live, to do the
things they do.

Like in any good
society, dominance
must live as a
secondary.