Poem/Fingers

I seem to be in poetry mode at the moment. Weird. But also fun.

fingers

when precisely was it that my

fingers (scrap-nailed, bent)

 

became

 

lined with use, adult tools that do not

resemble those slim fronds

with which I learned

to grasp crayons, doorhandles

 

firmly, with a child’s sense

of seriousness in such simple tasks; when

 

did the callous below

the ring-finger of my left hand,

flesh-caramel dot beneath a silver band

form; or when

 

did the sharp creases of

my palms first tar

in lines of life, heart,  mercury

 

the hidden onwards road,

the wandering star?