Hands of Time by Susan Miller
Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash
Whose hands are these that rest prim and proper on my lap?
My vanity, like the lady I no longer wish to be.
with nails like caps atop each one.
Unbreakable, when I didn’t bite them.
Delicious at times; too good to give up.
Ragged when life was ragged, or polished to hide my sins.
These days my fingers point willy-nilly.
The church wobbles, the steeple askew,
My naked nails are ridged and pocked, an LA road after the rain.
The milky-white skin spotted and veined like a fallen leaf.
Granny fingers, granny hands,
but for my middle fingers which somehow remain intact
for this unlady-like lady of a certain age.
My “tall man birdie” still straight and proud,
“Take that,” crazy tailgate drivers, customer non-service folks,
to a world gone berserk with anger and rage.
Then, there are my pointer fingers.
In days past, my “Pointer Finger Wags” were famed.
A prelude to the “I mean business scold.”
“Bad dog, bad dog, You pee’d on the rug;”
A finger that would make a teen-aged son pay attention-
At least for a moment.
Retired are the pointers’ wagging scold.
The dog long-gone, the son now grown.
My fingers, with their mates, have found other joys,
A poke, a tickle, silky grandchild hair,
Scraping up the last little bits of chocolate from a bowl.
And, best of all, the touch of another’s hand on my own.
My vanity, like the lady I no longer wish to be.
with nails like caps atop each one.
Unbreakable, when I didn’t bite them.
Delicious at times; too good to give up.
Ragged when life was ragged, or polished to hide my sins.
These days my fingers point willy-nilly.
The church wobbles, the steeple askew,
My naked nails are ridged and pocked, an LA road after the rain.
The milky-white skin spotted and veined like a fallen leaf.
Granny fingers, granny hands,
but for my middle fingers which somehow remain intact
for this unlady-like lady of a certain age.
My “tall man birdie” still straight and proud,
“Take that,” crazy tailgate drivers, customer non-service folks,
to a world gone berserk with anger and rage.
Then, there are my pointer fingers.
In days past, my “Pointer Finger Wags” were famed.
A prelude to the “I mean business scold.”
“Bad dog, bad dog, You pee’d on the rug;”
A finger that would make a teen-aged son pay attention-
At least for a moment.
Retired are the pointers’ wagging scold.
The dog long-gone, the son now grown.
My fingers, with their mates, have found other joys,
A poke, a tickle, silky grandchild hair,
Scraping up the last little bits of chocolate from a bowl.
And, best of all, the touch of another’s hand on my own.