Hands that grab and push and twist.
The quiet hand that gently turns,
pushing through with silent steps.
The fighting hand that takes and slams,
against the wall, against the frame.
The preoccupied hand that uses,
but does not even realize it has touched.
I don’t know why, but I’m looking.
You sit there, day after day,
sometimes useful, other times forgotten.
I rarely notice you’re there,
except, perhaps, when there’s something wrong
and you stop working. I use you.
But, now I sit. I reflect. I see you in my meditation.
I am seeing. Awareness dawns, and I am alive.
I am a prisoner, trapped in one space.
I am ignored some days, and others —
I am pushed and prodded with
sweaty hands and serrated metal.
I was never given a choice. Maybe you weren’t either.
This is what I was molded to be: an object.
Some days, I guess I don’t mind. Or I don’t have a mind.
Other days I despise and know I cannot change.
You. You are looking at me. Why?
Why notice me now? What do you see?
I am just a door knob. I am only a thing.