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Cretin
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Stranger
Powerless, he watched his hand act out as people on the train as- sumed he planned the pinching, slaps,
incessant snapping—even though he swore it did these things itself. He snared it in a sling but, trapped,
it only scratched, undoing all the careful wraps and knots. And when freed, the hand embarrassed even
worse.
Divorce was hard. It broke that man, and as he left the courthouse, on the street, a woman screamed:
his hand had wormed its way beneath her dress—her face aghast, like blooming blood or flower print he
tore away.
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Past the swelling mob, his hand yanked him shuffling, fingers wrig- gling; cast out: every part disbanded.
Stranger. Now it was stranger. Life had turned stranger. They call him stranger. He is the stranger.
He woke beneath an overpass, that hand pointing frantically. Along the path, while buttons popped
(hand stripped him nude), he went laughing—sometimes weeping—clenching fist. It's said he found
peace in knowing all was gone, or lapsed to madness, murdering. And some find dripping hand prints
pointing the way there.
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