The contracture of time
And my hands, a gnarled oak,
grimaced in Dupuytren's contracture,
telling of the slowness of demise,
the tightening of the loosening
of life’s grip on the tide’s race.
It is a comfort to see its slowness.
At least I am alive;
more than can be said of Dupuytren,
and I can pick my nose more easily.
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