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Sore
Hands that have seen many a storm.
Hold and cuddle the fragile form
Of an infant child’s bare skin.
Pulling him close to keep him warm.
Hands that press forcefully, to pin
The head of a man who can’t win
Into the barrel of a gun
Or a baseball bat crushing a shin.
Hands weathered ‘cause they would not run.
Hammered nails and lifted a ton.
Brought home money and food to eat.
Have grown old as life’s just begun.
Hands chapped and raw from snow and sleet.
Blistered and burned from too much heat,
labored long to prevent defeat,
labored long to ensure defeat.
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