Freshly Washed Poem by Cee Bea

I reach out for bites
and jabs
but am greeted by a an empty hand
wringing itself with the other
freshly washed

its there, then gone
like a stuttered dream.
This will be my mask

even on rainy days
when the cold eeks and creeks in
the whistle of the wind
like a mournful cry
echoes again and again and again

not in a cold deathly way..
but like a old song,
a sad song, that requires
we listen, until we learn