by Simon Hamid
Holding babies hands,
Their parents nearby,
Fat fingers and hands,
Clutching,
Resting damp in my palm.
Palms opening and folding again,
Their pale color so different from mine.
The child does not care what I am,
Does not sense my loss.
Just the feel that I love it now,
And so, I must have loved someone else once too,
That is good enough.
