Hands

Sorry I haven't posted since Spain, I have a bunch of new unfinished poems and... plenty to do that takes priority over finishing them :P

Hands
They're dirty- well thank you for that
And there's a blister on my thumb
This pinky doesn't stretch out flat
Please don't point it out like I'm dumb

If you have nice hands, I won't whine‒
I too would like your satin skin‒
But my own hands suit me just fine
Each callous shows where I have been

These hands have climbed more trees and rocks
Than you've seen any grown man climb
They've greased engines and wound up clocks
And I splinter them all the time

They play tennis and violin,
You'll see it on my fingertips
And they get bored holding a pen
Or bucket without handle grips

Look! Here's a scar from boiling tea
This part has even had frostbite
And here's where the windshield cut me
On icy roads close to midnight

These hands work so hard kneading dough
For the best bread you've ever had
They can also hold newborns, though,
And give you great hugs when you're sad

My wrists may have some funny tans
And my fingers may not align
But my whole life is in these hands
And I thank heaven that they're mine