Wednesday, February 2, 2011



My hands are
Smooth and small
I have always
Looked down on

My forever friends
Always attached
If lost
Then wished well
Till I join them again
To play catch

The fingers
Were there for me
My bony buddies
Nails for heads
Knuckles for bellies
Whisker hairs
From gently curved flesh
That gripped my fork and pen

They scratched
They stroked
Now, just a hint of age
Has arrived
One small dark spot
One extra crease
One vein more pronounced
Now I’m looking for
Old man hands

The hands,
Like cold twisted clay
They creep up on you one day
Struggling to pop the cap
On the pill bottle
The claws
That tighten into balls
They can only strike out
Angry at having grown

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