Left-handed people die faster.
It's true in this cruel right-hand
world. I pump gas with my right
hand after swiping my card with
my right and stare at the
start of rust on the scratch on
the car's side. I remember when
I first discovered the dent, one
morning before work, back when
I lived alone. I was rather non-
chalant about it; what're you
supposed to do with a hit and
run? My neighborhood just
began its declaration of war
and I'm sure my future mugger
saw me padding around with
my iPod, wondering at the big
sky and sweeping my hair to
the side. Like lefties, I'm prone
to misfortune. I deal with fallout,
break hearts and friendships,
and land on my face instead of
my ass. Lefties use different
scissors and have ink smudges
on the sides of their hands. They
must crank up their stereos by
reaching across to the right-
sided knob. How much extra
effort this world must be. And
do they ever feel incomplete?
I hope not because lefties are
sexy. All the extra work must
pay off with a firmer rear, a deft
precision at applying nail polish,
a stylish adeptness at sporting
suspenders, a sweet shot in
basketball. I have no statistical
backing to prove this except
personal experience. All those
lefties I know are just darn
attractive, even more so in their
reading glasses, or while fencing
(those white outfits!), or shovel-
ing snow in bitter cold. Never a
copier of old, they exude fresh-
ness. Must be how their brains
work, on the right, sure which
way's north and what a wood
pecker looks like. They fizz and
burn out like falling stars. I get up
from falling on my face and shake
all their left hands with my right
and my god it feels right.
 

[This poem contains over twenty words solved in a game of Pictionary.]