very simple, two good hands

like desert, his hands of dry earth
and callouses. splintered
nails. Ocher and rust,
they match the colours of his neck.
Exposed to the winds and the suns of
many years
standing knee deep in
rubble
hot metal and
the tides.
Each night they shine silver with
residue from fish scales.
thickened by nylon ropes and salt
they've tied knots he
now sits at the kitchen table, idly
twisting into found pieces of string
and rubber bands.
Smelling of soot and fresh wounds
they
line metal, grow weary of the repetition of
a welder's work. Stretch
tense muscles and count
scars.
Firm on the wooden handle
smears of chalk and
sawdust line the cracks. He
comes home
to wash the babies and feed the dogs.
his hands
scabbed and blackened at the knuckles,
He touches their backs and
the children take comfort in their weight.
Warm to hold
an infant's head, and
his wife's smooth plait.
the dense click of fingernail against
tooth
he is thoughtful.
they hold so much weight, these hands
of carbon and sinew.
it is so
very heavy.
it is so
very simple, these
two good
hands.