My Smiling Hands

I look at my fingers

I look at the wheels

The gears mash my fears

On who would glove my hand

 

The nails may be painted

And hide the dark line

Dead opposite of manicure

The lines I see are the many

 

Craggy fissures lined like ink

Where my fingers bend

Have sent smiles many miles

That come back again.

 

The nut, the cable and chain covered

In dark city grease, washes out

Mostly. The etchings tell a story

Few care to see, a wrench like me.

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