Crow's Feet: Life As We Age
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Hands of Time by Susan Miller

Picture
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.
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