Hands

By the steamy window he sits,

in a warm room on a cold day,

he taps his fingers on the glass.

It sounds like the beginning of a march

- pada dump, pada dump,

but his focus is elsewhere

and with it any intention.

Abandoned, unbroken, and free

he taps his heal on the old oriental rug

as his jittery knee gets faster, he again

holds his breath to the count of three.

The snow-covered driveway remains stock-still

his knuckles now pressed on the glass.

Wet, they cool his body with a shudder.

His right is to wait and receive,

old things left behind,

from a family he only just knew.

Buzzing from a few whiskey swigs,

his breath is heavy and warm.

The motionless whereabouts surround him,

the anxiety swelling up.

They really won’t let him pass,

until their reparations are paid in full.