My hand moves without My cues like it has got a brain. Its itch often hops on to scratch- A compulsive habit of exploration. It browses my back, brushes My hair. Reaches my groin, Just check if everything is Alright. Duels with fingers of the Other hand, picks on the nails. Sometimes reaches the foot To dig into the toenails. The pinky finger loves mining It seems. A couple of times daily, It has to dive in my ear to dig Into the wax, which eventually- Is rubbed off to the chair, Wall, windowpane, or the table. The other digits are no less. The thumb and the forefinger, Form an alliance to reach my nose, Like a search party for missing Ammunition. The booger that's found is rolled Into a wad to be catapulted Towards the distal wall. And it coincidentally to hit, A Housefly- The entire species must have Slipped into an illusion that They're on the movie sets of The director Rajamouli sir.