glowing under fluorescent light,
end of shift, day emerging from night,
fingers bent gently at the edges of a book,
i should take a photo to remember,
but i’ll settle just to look
at the wrinkles of my knuckles,
always had a thing for hands,
callouses and broken skin
can tell you a lot on who someone is,
where they’re going, where they’ve been
i wonder what my hands portray,
(although i do not care)
in this light, on my thigh,
they remind me of a simpler time:
gripping my mother’s fingers,
watching her stir a ***,
or a cigarette held between;
but i reminisce quietly,
for my mother i am not.