A Poem On Your Hands

This is inspired partially by the current Corona panic. What with everyone washing their hands. I originally wanted to write at the scales that have formed on the top of my right hand. But that would be too visceral so then I recalled how much I hate static shocks. Especially in the winter when you are shucking off gloves and what not. During winter I become like Bill Murray's character in What About Bob? who was quite the obsessive germaphobe. Within this circular logic I came up with this bad poem.

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Electrifying snaps
"Are you ok? Woah! I heard that"
It was my fleece coat woven from lambs stolen from the gods
Full of thunder bolts it lashed back when set against the back of the chair

Blowing it with a girl because before coming for a kiss
I blew
Puckered my lips and tilted my head
A tiny swirl of air from already pursed lips
"What the fuck was that?!"
For the static
The chemistry now waning and whirling away from us
It's winter. The air is full of cold and sublimated sand
It Teslas up shocks from vapor even in the warmth of her apartment

I left. Piles of her clothes still bristling with shock
Nylon pants and fleece jackets emblazoned with the names of places
Patagonia. Columbia. North Face

Convulsing metal that gnarls even through leather gloves
This cooper lighting rods current through germs
Sloughing them off my hand in foaming jitters
Now clean I set down my fleece and it stings.
And sings to the randos around me.