I look down at them often
When they lie idle in my lap
Or I bring them up, opposite my face
I turn them over
And back
Examining carefully
Observing each vein
Like tributaries of a blue river that runs through my body
I see the small scar from long ago
And the new scratch
I compare the length of each finger
And thickness
The shape of my nails
The white marks on them
A deficiency of some kind
I look at the lines on my palm
And think about what they mean
If they mean anything at all

I look down at them often
To scrutinize
To evaluate their worth

I look at them often
Because he said they are beautiful.

11/11/2008

Author's Note: Suggestions for the title are welcome

Posted on 11/11/2008
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