My Hands

Small for an adult man
they remain unblemished,

skin no longer taut,
knuckles tiny knots

of weathered cherrywood,
the palm patterns, for

so long ignored,
now warily examined

for the secret code
of my existence.

My hands continue their
busy ways - stabbing

at keyboards, grasping air,
turning and twisting the

intricate objects that
help move me through the day.

Their work is constant
and carried out in silence,

the grooming of our bodies,
the stroking of your hair

the slow descent of my palms
along your thigh the most pleasurable

tasks of all. Sometimes you take
my hands in yours and we compare:

your fingers, slender stems of expectation
unlike mine - too stiff with age now

to grapple with those minor
chords and serenade you to sleep.

The gold signet ring embedded
in my skin still shines -

a token illumination of my
hands' everlasting value.

Just promise me one thing: when my
hands have served their time

let them rest together, conjoined,
entwined, in imitation of the

love they found.