Those hands tilt downward
from their perch upon the armrest
fingers pensive
broken under the weight
of life and buckle to the bone
As a child I marveled at the
Veins and calluses which mapped
Out the mountains and valleys
Of fingers, palm, and back
Craters and cuts split down
The lifeline who’s astrological
Contents disappeared with
Each fingerprint over the
years grasping the trowel.
Threads tore from my tie
as the sandpapered digits
sought to demonstrate and
teach the Windsor knot.
Small scratches aggravated
my skin during each short,
muted moment of extolment.
The sun beat bright through
its cloudy balloon and burst
through the air to dry
each layer of crust
on the pitiful baseball diamond.
Lifting the mallet,
those hands drove down
each wayward fence stake into
quiet submission.
Until one delinquent post
escaped its bonds
and a chunk from the tip
of a solitary finger
broke its line
a river of life-giving
stream fell like blessed water
into the cracks of
the pagan ground.
Those hands averted
the bright, sun-lit
attention of others.
They toiled in the darkness
among the filters,
cylinders, and valves.
Or, when on the scaffold,
Insured that each
line was pulled tight.
Courses made plumb
Tapped down until level
while each flake
each brittle of brick
was dusted off with
a quiet, simple pleasure.
My mind wanders
to a misty morning
spent watching fingers
stained by tar and clay
etch the lines of a face,
surmise its perimeter,
and cut with precision
each rising stock
each facial blade of grass.
Putting aside figures
and small, model cars
I sat at the mirror
pretending to landscape
nonexistent tufts of
determined masculinity.
The skin on my cheeks
burning with irritation
sardonically thanked
me for my hastiness
with the razor.
Does that night still haunt
the roads and intersections
which scar those hands?
The evening when they were
pulled abruptly from
seclusion only to be thrust
into the blinding
rays of daylight.
Boisterous tussles
and jocular shoves
of a youth attempting
to comically show his strength
released that damaged finger
from its careful, white
costume of gauze.
Thrown from its confines,
its wounds once again
poured their precious contents
onto the cheap church linoleum
sealed by the slates of
sour sweat and caked mud.
Though not mortal-
the wound proved pivotal
to a relationship in flux.
While the flesh groaned in
Modest discomfort, the soul
Sought solitude from
the attention of strangers.
The eyes then connected
and disclosed what each
stern extremity was
unable, unwilling to convey.
A silence crept over each
member of that shoddy
lobby while the understanding
of what transpired
dripped into my mind
like the deep, poisonous
ink of a pen into a fish tank.
My juvenile vantage point
struggled to understand
the portrait sketched
that night in that room.
But my hands continue
to feel each minute’s pulse
when the geography of those hands
envelopes my own
in a firm shake
with a pressure only
Atlas could describe
in lines of meter and rhyme.
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