Dad’s Hands
In the cafe booth his son asks,
Dad, what do you see
when you look at your hands?
Palms up, palms down, open, closed,
bent, scraped, swollen and raw. Dad
answers, These hands are not mine.
He looks across the table
at this young man’s hands,
smooth, strong, flexible, straight.
You have my hands, Son.
These hands that I have on
once belonged to my father.
Someday, way too soon, you’ll see
that your son will have your hands,
and you, Son, will have mine.
Carl "Papa" Palmer, retired Army, retired FAA, now just plain retired, lives in University Place, Washington. He has seven chapbooks and a contest winning poem riding buses somewhere in Seattle. Carl has been nominated for the Micro Award and Pushcart Prize.
MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever
www.authorsden.com/carlpalmer
Ah, so beautiful what we inevitably inherit from our parents. Your poem is from your soul. Sheri
ReplyDeletea lovely poem indeed here, with a wise observation!
ReplyDeleteAs an elderly woman who never thought I much looked like my mother, I now see I do when I'm looking in a mirror.
ReplyDeleteNice poem and story, Carl. I enjoyed it. Thank you for sharing and continued blessings!
ReplyDelete-MJ (www.tgbtgpublictions.com)