Hold my hand while I tell you this story.

It begins with a picket fence.  Not mine.

The one he never built.  I’ll squeeze your

hand when code words have to be used.

No code there.  That squeeze was just for

sensing our methods.  When he planted

hyacinth where his picket fence should

have sprouted, we knew a change was

signaled, but saw no strange cars rolling

by to take note.  I squeezed your hand on

hyacinth.  We use that word for rebellion.

When we grilled that summer, we stocked

the ice chest often.  Cold beer a necessity

when staring down hyacinth.  We say ice

for fear.  Perhaps I forgot to squeeze.  One

of us prayed to God, while another drove a nail

into his chest with a claw hammer.  I squeezed

because we use God for misdirection.  One

of us pulled the nail using the same hammer.

No squeeze.  Hammer means hammer.