There is a piece of the old laundromat Wrapped unceremoniously around my wrist. This little bangle, this tiny copper cuff, Has become a lightning rod. Sometimes, I hang my hand out the window, Driving down the highway with my music And the violent wind whips and flogs it, Sapping away my heat. Every time I lift and lower my arm The weight shifts, settling lower or higher, Caressing the natural, bony contours That used to be bare. I often wonder if the old Scotsman Beat the metal so hard on an anvil Until it could accept its purpose To always remember: I am only a man, and I will die. Strange comfort from one I might call friend, But not so otherworldly from a slave. I wish you could be free To return to the Earth without obligation, With no more minds to quiet or hearts to slow Or water to shepherd to and fro— Or lives to wash. As you tumble round and paint my skin, Sharply smelling of blood and rain, I am sure that you're exhausted, But I need you. And I am a selfish man with grandiose dreams. And you are an accessory to my folly. And you must hold, with all of your strength, The memory of who I used to be.