'His Hands'
By christy
His hands are always busy telling the story of man, deep white lines spitting blood, as they shake and scream of 70 hour work-weeks draining him like a leaky basin. His hands are weathered tires splitting through patches, coughing plugs, rolling on till fumes sputter dry, and the moon gives them to a father who must cradle children in the vastness of his palms, catch tears, tuck babies into sleep, turn granite to feathers before reaching for the wife whose ring is anchored there by thick calluses, touching the softness that reminds him why it feels so good to hurt sometimes. Written December 3rd, 2001 © on Dec 03 2001 12:52 AM PST 0 • 10
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"His hands are always busy ..."