My hands are two little antennas
which receive remote waves
distill and disseminate messages
generated and circulated by the brain.

My heart pounds and heaves
releases blood to brain and body
like a raja of the east
the brain commands.

And like the raja’s subjugated subjects
the body concedes
and the hands execute
though oft times bruised they are.

My heart’s the maker
a legislature
formulating the fundamentals
hoping for honest obeisance.

My mind’s the decipher
a judiciary
making analytic and indifferent decisions
on fair and the fallacious.

My hands’re the mechanic
the executive
having strong faith on performance
particular, pertinent, perfect and productive.

Believe me! my hands are my heart
I join my finger tips face to face
see the bow they make
and feel the vibration of my heart
on the fingertips
you know?

Wednesday 12.00 Noon
Iowa House Hotel

I have written this poem on the initiation of Ms Teresia Bush, Senior Educator of Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Washington DC who expected from the IWP team some writing on any work of art displayed there.