They say drop the weight of what’s been —but my arms are shaped like the load they’ve carried.These same arms now reach toward tomorrowcurled as they are around yesterday’s shape.This hollow in my palms — is it for holdingor the print of what has already slipped away.And when I place that hollow in a stranger’s handwhich emptiness will he feel first — mine or his own.Next man queues for what he’s owed,his palm open, waiting. I pass himnot my rights but the shape of what was taken —and we call this exchange living.