these hands have lines
these crooked ridges running across my palms
bending with each of Life’s little visits
where it knocked at my door and I turned to answer its guest with my solid hands

one runs from the tips of a finger to the end of the wrist
the time my strength was slashed in two
cut open like a melon with the raw soft core exposed

one winds itself around the mound of my thumb
travelling like a lonely salesman far from home
removed from the rest
then returning in excited jagged leaps from the thrill of being in the company of others

one breaks between the west and the east of my palm –
in time out mode
it stops for breath from its asthmatic journey

these hands have washed themselves over and over
wiped tears
hit some curveballs
hugged the hell out of Hope

these hands have reached inside bodies and ripped out hearts
they’ve pinched unbelievable news
they’ve questioned endless clues

some lines have stopped their Life span
some continue while they can
yet others are developing
being embossed with the experience of the coming years

these old old hands
with fistfuls of secrets and open love
their stories are many
and time is short