His Hands
His hands should have
their own identity,
a name perhaps,
befitting each vocation
they enjoy.
Skillful hands -
finely tuned, they hold every tool
with equal panache.
Each callous earned, a trophy,
yet self-aware, they're gentle
as they browse my every curve.
Comical hands -
the right one scraping whiskers,
razoring down a field of white
revealing trails of pink-skinned angles.
I laugh at the silly poses
skewed by the left
so the right won't miss a spot,
my just reward, a foamy kiss.
Angry hands -
his driving hands,
hands that slap the wheel
as assholes go too slow
or cut in front,
directionals up their butts
with their heads.
I'm glad the angry hands
are only known to live in cars.
Those hands...
I love his hands.
poem by C.J. Heck
Added by Poetry Lover
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