Reach vs. grasp

Who wags more than I do, though I don't have fleas

Dec 27, 2025

In tones of gray and black printed on tan-colored paper, this vertical lithograph shows a hand holding up a metallic sphere, which reflects the hand and body of the bearded man holding it, as well as the room behind the man. The background behind the hand and orb lightens from black along the bottom edge to light gray across the top. Wrinkles cross the wrist, and the lines of the hand are clearly visible. In the reflection, which is distorted along the contour of the mirrored ball, the man’s hair is brushed back from his high forehead, and he looks at us, or at his reflection, with large eyes. His thick mustache and beard are neatly trimmed. He wears a suit with a vest over a tie and button-down shirt. His left fist rests on his left thigh, and he holds up the orb with his other hand. In the room behind him, to our right, an alcove with windows on two sides has two upholstered armchairs, a few side tables, and a lamp sitting on a sideboard. The man sits in a chair with wooden arms, next to a form that could be a reclining couch with a pillow. A shelf hangs on the wall behind the man, and pictures hang above and below the single row of books. The print has a grainy, speckled look, as if drawn with charcoal on textured paper. The print is signed in the lower left corner, under the printed image: “MC Escher no 13/30.” In the lower right corner, a number, “1-35” and the conjoined block letters “MCE” appear in white against the dark background. — *Hand with Reflecting Sphere,* M.C Escher (1935)

Reach vs. grasp

by Bob Hicok

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

We were robbing banks on Saturdays 
instead of going to the farmers' market, 
so I hadn't had my raisin bagels in weeks, 
and woke up late one night from a dream 
of a crocodile in our bed and realized 
what a mistake we'd made, so now we rob banks 
on Sundays, when christians and catholics 
and football lovers are speaking to their god, 
who answers with touchdowns and sacks, if at all. 
Our garage full of money, enough to buy 
a Bosch dishwasher and not worry about 
how much it costs, to send our cats to Tahiti 
if they want, and to fund a revolution, though only 
a small one, say in Liechtenstein or the Bronx. 
We're rich. Not corporate malfeasance rich 
but soulless day-trader rich. Still, being rich 
without raisin bagels was no way to live, 
fresh ones made by Mary who owns a german shepherd 
named Carl. Who wags more than I do, though I
don't have fleas. It's not really money 
I'm after: I hope to open a vault one day
and find a scroll or box or glowing orb
that reveals the secret of happiness
and saves me from measuring my life
against the lives of others, even dogs. I mean,
Carl wags like every moment is a cheeseburger
and Mary has just called him a good boy
for scarfing it down. Three bites, tops.
Whereas I nibble and nibble and nibble
and never actually get to the end 
of the thing, or sometimes, I think, even the start.

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