The Talking Lines

Hello there, my troubled wanderer
how desperate and large your hand looks
on top of me, your eyes bulging
onto me, in hopes to gain relief.

I know the time of the day in your scratches
if fluid, gentle, it's day time
if jolted, inconsistent, your taps mean it's midafternoon
or early morning, a time your mind is not
fully functioning.
If hard, consistent and scattered, it's evening,
after you've had a drink.

I cannot see these tattoos you mark on me
every day--maybe three or more
another limb, another page
scorned with your instrument,
but you do look pensive as you work.

sometimes, the rain falling from your eyes
onto my sliced maple sheets
doesn't dry for days