Hands


When life was simple,
Dimpled,
These plump, pink hands,
Now turned to lizards
Grey and white,
Blue and bruised
By life’s long
Corridor of experience
Gnarled and scarred,
Drained of blood
And stained;
A habit, which will be
The end of me
Kills, in the end,
Untended friends
Who serve without complaint, or
Vanity
Left and right and naked,
Functional, to task
This mother’s bitter iron grasp,
A badge of this humanity

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