Working Class Hands


People find it hard to believe
That these old, withered hands
Covered with a fine layer of Earth's dust
Once were lily-white and smooth
And whose fingers gently kissed the keys of a piano
And drew crowds who cared to listen to its tender voice

People find it hard to believe
That these numb, scarred hands
Battled with iron and fire day after day
Once were blank and empty
And whose fingers glided through your thick golden tresses
And sifted through them as if they were gold

People find it hard to believe
That these rough, chapped hands
Buried under the weight of a pick-axe
Once were light and carefree
And whose fingers wrapped around the baby fingers of my boy
And squeezed tightly refusing to let go

People find it hard to believe
And so do I

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