On The Other Hand

The other hand itches.
My mother thinks it's money,
she is admittedly superstitious.
At least, I think it's the other hand
but I've never been very sure
which is which.

So, sure, I have convictions,
sure I have facts,
like my wedding ring is too tight
in the morning when I first wake,
but on the other hand,
I'm not so sure about this other hand.

My cats will love me until they die,
I will always love the smell of coffee,
I'm even a little bit vain at times,
but I'm not terribly certain about
this other hand.

I could die before my cats
and they could forget about me.
I could get pregnant and grow
to dislike coffee,
I could but I'd rather not.
The point is that I'm not so certain.
It seems like it ought be
of utmost importance to do so, but
is it really necessary to consider
what's on the other hand?

Because I'll tell you frankly,
there's nothing here. There's nothing
on the other hand.
There's no jewelry, there's no nail polish.
It may, in fact, be completely free
of scars and freckles and bumps
and no one is holding it tenderly anyway,
or leading the way.

The point is, the other hand is just
an excuse, or something that appeases
an awkward query in an uncomfortable
social situation.

So, maybe the other hand doesn't exist,
or maybe it does
and it's really shiny and smooth
and reflective just like a mirror.