Gnarly, bruised, and crippled,
a pair of old man's hands.
They have flown a kite,
tightened a nut on a bolt.
Operated the machine
that made the pipe
that carries the sewage
to the processing plant.
They have held the wheel
that guided the car from
one end of this nation to the other.
They've tenderly caressed a woman
and changed a baby's diaper.
They have rowed a boat.
They have paddled a canoe
and sailed a Snark. They have raked
and turned the earth with spade
and plucked the veggies from the garden.
Those thumbs can strike a spacebar
They've never tapped a message
On a teeny weeny pad.
Those fingers have dialed
a rotary phone; they've never
played Grand Theft Auto
and never will. They have stitched
embroidery and darned socks.
Those hands have prepared cakes,
turned steaks. They have mixed and
stirred the candy
and have transported same to the mouth.
They have wielded the blade that shaved his face.
They have served him well.
What is left for them to do?