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.