"pity these hands," à la e.e. cummings

pity these hands,

gnarled and crippled

that never ached

to bring another aid,

that never sweated

in the cupped palms of a lover

and grew wrinkled, old,

alone.

pity that heart,

battered and befuddled,

deprived of love

by love once lost,

that never knew mankind

nor humanity–

that heart

that ticked and tocked

for want of other occupation

and then, gears grown thirsty

and beset by rust,

one day

stopped.