Immobile In Texas

If my hands were silly putty, glossy and movable, the miles would be fantasy.  If my hands were like this I could stretch to pet your cats, iron the ties, hold onto your shoulders, piggy back down the lavender field at dawn.  One hand could touch your lips, the other grab the sides of your hips.
If my legs were steel or iron, they could move me thousands of miles, and bring my fleshy upper half to you.  Maybe they would start to forget the destination.  Maybe I would have to remind them of you.
If my fingers could pick up a plane ticket and pay green bills, they would, to see your home with the oil paintings of meadows, pines, and dunes, your bed with the silky, enveloping sheets, the leathery chair with your lanky legs resting on the footstool.  They would dance across a counter to pay.  They would act like spiders and crawl all over your back, legs, stomach, face.
But there is nothing left.  I am immobile in Texas with people who piss themselves to sleep.  The rancid smell of shit has fastened itself inside the walls.  People fall asleep in their mashed potatoes and celery sticks.  The families have forgotten or the people have no family, or they’ve simply chosen this existence because they are crazy or depressed, or too fat to move.  It’s true they bring you three meals on trays here.
I too, cannot move.  My body has forgotten what my brain has told it to do.  And this will always, sadly prevent me from seeing you.

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