These Old Hands
By
John I. Blair
There they are at the ends
Of my hairy arms,
More familiar than my nose
(Which I can’t see without a mirror).
Each vein, each spot,
Each scar, scab, groove
Has tales to tell
If I cared to share.
But it’s too soon;
New stories of my hands
Unfold each day; let’s wait
To catalog
Until the morning comes
When these old hands
No longer move.
©2016 John I. Blair
Click on author's byline for bio and list of other works published by Pencil Stubs Online.
| 
