Touch

Written as I pass money back and forth, as a darn clerk and sometimes I can't help but feel the skin.  Some who've reviewed it thought it was about prostitution. Nope, just a simple time that flesh meets flesh- innocently.  Rare thing to care about something so small.  Whatever, poetically could use some work. 

Touch

As I go for the pass, I dip low

barely grazing the skin.

Unbridled call to get to the meet

but not justified to grab bones.

A small fetish I know, a requisition

and the need to touch.

Many weighty souls undaunted

by my subtle pounce.

Commerce and trade,

hand in hand,

the goods are passed.

The clientele is usually callus,

in-between slick and severe in degrees.

It's always the supple, plush, plump ones

that heighten my immediate response.

Consumed by my attempts to touch,

having an avid appetite for waves hello,

or up high, down low, uh too slow,

with pinkie promises, unseen and aside.

Just looking for the one, the some,

to take my five digits up high,

often seen the shakes of fists,

or the playful trysts of indifferent

or conscientious wits.

I subtly go unrestraint towards the skin,

just to sample, taste a life that lives within.

Ten digits unfolds unto to

a small palm reader's hand.

I am a Japanese truth fish that wishes to lay down.