I rub her shoulders; like
Softening mahogany.

Hands ruined from decades
Of construction and boxing

Do her too little good.
I'd give her my back; it's much

Better than hers. Keep my hands
And my stitched up heart with the

Ticking aorta valve of titanium
And granite (such contrast to its

Otherwise volunerable softness), but
I'd give her these shoulders.

They can carry worlds, the full weight
Of a grown woman  

For miles, across continents if so.
They have carried everything except

The ability to lend themselves. As
Useless as beauty to the blind.