Poems ✍️

FOR the second time in a year this lady with the white hands is brought to the
west room second floor of a famous sanatorium.
Her husband is a cornice manufacturer in an Iowa town and the lady has often
read papers on Victorian poets before the local literary club.
Yesterday she washed her hands forty seven times during her waking hours and
in her sleep moaned restlessly attempting to clean imaginary soiled spots off her
hands.
Now the head physician touches his chin with a crooked forefinger.