(NPM #6 write a poem about Hands)
This old patient, his long fingers
artistic, he must have held them tip to tip
his two fingers forming a steeple.
I see scars and ingrained stains
on the wrinkled skin of his hands
Suggesting amateur carpentry
Perhaps from childhood.
Today these hands flutter
like a butterfly with clipped wings
unable to unbutton the shirt with ease
these hands look like empty shells
about to crumble at the slightest touch.
Ironic and almost humiliating
the strength he once had
he thinks he can still own,
his pretexts of resistance
to allow me to help him climb up
on to the examining table.©