Old Man's Hands

They were once fine,
long-fingered and
aristocratic, photographed
resting lightly on a model's
shoulder as she wore a
mink and clutched a Gucci.

In childhood they played
like all kids' hands play:
clutching, grabbing,
throwing some hapless
ball, or playing war,
waving to unseen allies
while bringing a gory
death to hordes of
relentless foes.

In manhood they sought more
to caress a woman's flesh than
play throw and catch-- so
they explored the wondrous
nooks and crannies with both
hunger and hesitancy, always
joyfully losing themselves in
her eternal unknowingness.

They were mighty then,
the hands of a young god,
giving pleasure in equal
measure to its taking.
But now their skin lies
cracked and shrieking
of seven decades-- the
fingers are bending like
old trees succumbing
finally to the brutal wind,
with knobs sprouting from
joints and a low pain
taking up a permanent
and uninvited residence.


(c.2013)

Reviews

[ElizaB]

I really enjoyed your piece.

Each stanza takes us to another moment in this mans life, from childhood and innocence to adulthood and passion to a withering old man. I liked the way you personified his fingers in the last verse.

Good work!