Armed and Ready

My movements are slow.  People quickly look at my face – and even more quickly look away.

By six-thirty, my arms have dropped but I go on, hour after hour.

I work in offices and town squares.  People know my multiple personalities and think I could be cuckoo.

Quarter to three, halfway through the day, seems like a crucifixion.  

I am a freak because of my arms. My movements are slow and I sometimes need batteries.

When others dance in the New Year, I throw up my hands because I cannot join them.

Year after year, time after time, I just wind up on their bedside.

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