Poem: Hands

My hands have held a pencil
My hands have held a pen
My hands hold a child, crying in the middle of the night because he is scared of the dark
My hands hold my relatives when I have had the chance
My hands mime animals, usually poorly
My hands have clapped, for joy, for fun, or each hand individually - just because I can
My hands shot a gun, back when I was young and didn't know just how horrific that soda can truly was
My hands play peekaboo with young children, who laugh in glee and squeal in delight
My hands held swords and still know the feel of a good one
My hands have caressed lovers past and present, always with the intent to please
My hands massage tired muscles
My hands bear the scars of knives and broken glass, always the result of stupidity
My hands have typed on old typewriters, ribbon full of ink and keys prone to jam
My hands point, for good or ill, except when I point with my nose like a pointer dog
My hands wield knives like a good cook but have never tasted my cooking
My hands changed soiled diapers and will change many more
My hands are still young at heart
My hands will shake yours if you let them
My hands are shot through with blue veins filled with red blood, keeping them steady
My hands have given me pleasure when nobody else would
My hands shake when I have an adrenaline crash
My hands keep the rhythm and make music, though not music anyone will ever pay to see
My hands open doors and close them behind me
My hands are hairy from age

I like my hands