My Hands

My hands are too soft. Not enough strenuous gripping to sickles and shovels to scratch the surface of God's bounty. Too brown to be nostalgic of the soil.
Not enough generic features to be seen as just another.
More than just a brother. Pores to breathe a lover. Scorn to the life of one another.
My hands are too strong to feel the texture of a tender flame. To reckless
to organize themselves in a clapping harmony. My hands are too idle to
resist demolition. Too oily to hang on to reality. To ready to put your instincts to the test.
My hands are too angry to forgive each other. So the left one writes poems about how it hates the right and the right hand works itself out dreaming on punching the left one in the face.
My hands are too selfish to be ambidextrous. Too unique to want to look like each other
so they look for scars to gain a sense of individuality. One hand is bigger than the other.
One hand is smaller than the other.
My hands are too soulful to use a pick to pluck a string. They let their thumbnail grow ‘cause my hands compulsively like to sing.
My hands are too rhythmic to ever stop dancing. Too generous to ever stop taking care of your children. Too responsible to ever stop sweeping your offices...
But some say they are too brown to ever do anything else.