Like for oh so many righties, my left hand has become
Something extra, almost ornamental; at this point, it’s
Given up the good fight for precedence, has become
The clumsy side-kick, the faithful assistant, ready to hold
Things steady, centered, ready to hold the door, the light
A nail while a hammer descends right at it; it learned early
On, the shape of desks, of baseball gloves, of golf clubs
And those writing assignments, holding a pencil, following
The proper slant of cursive, praise or blame; my left hand
Surrendered to my education, became what we mean
When we say, “on the other hand,” when we point out
The thing that’s so easily missed when the majority rules;
My left hand has become the master of futile gestures
Flailing about, helps balance at times, gives me a place to
Put the extra glove, very little wear and tear, a perfect fit
For the pockets on that side; eventually, my left hand will
Atrophy, disappear as I evolve into the standard size and
Shape of things; it never saluted, or shook a hand, or opened
A jar, pulled a trigger, or for that matter never wrote a poem.

-- J. K. Durick