Wrong Hand

You meet me incorrectly. Now that might strike your ear as disjointed grammar, but every word is nailed into the right place. Though it smacks of poor English, I have no second tongue, and fully meant the original utterance. Hubris makes us feel like one big family with open channels. We are far too civilized to pluck one idiosyncratic thorn out after the other. So whatever interrupts social grace is redirected to the pharmacy or esteemed art galleries. For this reason our discourse is stripped with endless free tries. Bitten tongues rule the day. No one wants to polish the judgement seat. While I fully understand that desire, every man must be sat down. Salutations are not safe things. They can not be left up to best presumptions. It is a field of study and discipline all it’s own. Suffice it to say, you miserably failed our encounter. Good intentions will not smooth over the damage. Neither can any earthly power institute some kind of ceremonial redo. What is done is sealed. In greeting me eagerly, you grabbed the wrong hand. One hand sees you off with a blessing, but the other does not release. One hand is devoted to manipulating cultural gears. It's your handshakes, your thumbs up, your pats on the back. The other hand is covenant. Whether I extend it to you, or you take the initiative to clasp it, you are a debtor. I may visit whenever the spirit moves, collect when the premium is high, or afflict when the allegiance is low. What displease you is not my concern. It it right for an ear of corn to quibble with the sickle? Be warned, what I take, I do not replace. Dismissal happens upon my satisfaction, and I have a tattered coat that has survived three decades. Your lot is exclusively supply. Locked out of that assignment is council, protest, and anything approaching a peer.