Friday, February 5, 2010


i look at them now...
they are soft.
like a woman's hands.
once they were calloused.
like my soul, once was...
the scars are still there.
age spots, yes...i get more every year.
i have wounds from pulling cable...
for big earth movers.
i have burns from oxy-acetylene torches.
i had a man's life you know.
no pencil-neck job for me.
i had a worker's life.
blue collar.
my skin isn't soft or supple now.
it's crepe paper.
the star tattoo remains...
in the web of my right hand.
an icon of "manhood"...
silly now.
I look at my hands...
and see them folded on my chest.
in my coffin.
i hope they don't hold a rosary.
i hope they stick a pen between my cold fingers.
i look at my hands.
dry in the winter...
they crack
the wounds hurt
heal slowly
my hands are cold.
bad circulation
still they are useful, my hands.
to pet cats and dogs...
hold babies
stroke my wife's cheek,
or my daughter's golden hair.
I look at my hands, and wonder:
How will they look next year?

1 comment:

  1. Each year that passes tells a story & I thank you for sharing yours. I enjoy the realism in your writings. Your hands will be even more refined next year than they are today, they will continue to touch even more hearts & they will with a passion share your remarkable gift. You are a very talented writer.