Touched Out

Little hands like mice
run up and down the clock,
pat-a-cake pendulum breasts,
broken hourglass hips—
sand’s run out but

they keep turning me over
like a pebble worn smooth
by fingers reaching
in a pocket close and dark.

I am a woman perched on the edge

of her couch,
an asteroid belt of dirty laundry
books, toys
and children
who know nothing of relent,
hurtling.

Quietly I
implode,
a scatter of sand sifting
through chubby fingers,
and still they keep turning
and
turning
me
over.