I like the way my hands look like in the light of a fire,
I think.
It could be the drugs, or the drinking
Or sleep I haven't been sleeping,
But every year,
When winter has gone, and spring stands defiantly ahead,
I am reminded of this,
I like my hands,
In the light of fire,
With a good bit of dirt on them,
And a jug of rotgut wine in them.
I like the way my hands look in the light of a fire.