I type all day at work and yesterday my hands were sore.
Noticeable so.

I looked down at my hands and they were old.
Drawn, pale, wrinkled.
I could see all the veins
crawling over the tendons.
Saw every scar.

The scars were memories.
I could go back to each moment
and live them in my head.

On my knuckle.
from the party,
The swipe
at the heavy bag.

On my hand.
from the IV,
from “I’m drunk, I fell down and I have kidney stones!”

On my finger.
from the cigarette ember that stuck there
by accident.
8
Waiting at the Hyland theatre
with my dad
to see
Jesus Christ Superstar.

Every handy incident is leaving a scar
these days.

Maybe they’re reminding me
I can’t hide the hurts like I used to.
To show everyone
what I’ve been through

Maybe they’re there
In case my marble rolls away,
under the bed.

I’ll remember kea’s face
and my life will be her,
and these scars on my hands.

I have the Aveeno at my desk.
All day