I place my left hand on the sketch book. It flips over like a starfish I once poked with a stick while walking on the beach. There it lies washed up on the blank shore of my paper, folded in on itself, thumb clenched across the palm, fingers curling into claw. With my other hand I pry open the fingers. They splay out on the page, disjointed. I contemplate this prehensile specimen.

My busy capable
right hand — the good one—
roughs out an image.