scruta

I raise these hands hewn roughshod like sandpaper.

In the dim light I’ll try to read their lines,

Knowing they tell how I came to this place,

How my toil will give a man his dreams,

Or perhaps give me my own.

+++

But soon I tire of all of this.

Soon I’ll only rub these hands together

Vigorously trying to rub away this coarseness,

Forgetting the lines crisscrossing my palms,

As if to bring me back to my home,

But mostly just to stay warm.