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These Old Hands

By John I. Blair

There they are at the ends
Of my hairy arms,
More familiar than my nose
(Which I canít see without a mirror).

Each vein, each spot,
Each scar, scab, groove
Has tales to tell
If I cared to share.

But itís too soon;
New stories of my hands
Unfold each day; letís wait
To catalog

Until the morning comes
When these old hands
No longer move.

©2016 John I. Blair


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