Prepare yourselves...I have created....

Puppyhands
( or how could one so simple be misunderstood
by Guido Paparazzi


Every time he enters a room it glows with the heat of an oven filled with baking bread.
His smile is as bright and as volatile as a million exploding suns.
The light from his eyes pierces your soul and that of at least four people standing behind you.
His heart is a big as a country and could easily cause a giant to throttle if he tried to swallow it.
His presence makes peoples’ lungs and duodenums explode with sheer joy.
His books are full of paper, covered in words.
His shoes are full of feet, with toes.
His love melts butterflies.


All of these things are important and beautiful, like him.
All of these things are valueless and pock-marked.
Because of his hands.

Because of his hands which make infants giggle, toddlers cavort and all concurrent developmental stages gibber and become engorged.


He has Puppyhands.
And because of this he is exalted, reviled, vilified, scorned and magnificent.
His hands.
His Puppyhands.
His barking, drooling, nuzzling, urinating, defecating, loving Puppyhands.
The more he is loved.
The more he is unloved.
His hands smell of Puppies.
A silent tear spilled from his eye onto his furry, yipping, growling hands.