Hands: More Poetry Bullshit Because I’m An Overly Nostalgic Twenty Seven Year Old Who Should Just Deal With It.

Poem, Devin Howard, Devin, Howard

You carried me in one night, to a West Virginian house

Under an electric nighttime sky

Bent over to protect me from the rain

How big those hands must have been to hold me.

Then later, those same hands lay cracked

Upon the table, with bleeding, peeling skin,

Due to cardboard, shoveled (by hand of course)

For 5 days a week – for health and dental.

Those hands have rubbed my head, and fixed my walls.

They’ve fixed my car, my bank accounts,

They’ve driven under squalls.

A weathered, calloused, pair of working palms

Has rowed and paddled Jay and I, and Mom,

On countless trips,

In Maine, or southern swamps.

But even clever, rugged hands get old, and cause in sons

Bright sparks of memory

Of half hitch knots, and innumerable mountain runs.

 

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