Hands

My right hand is macho and takes the lead

in things, but the left, willingly, pitches in.

My body has always been their baby—

fussing with it, washing it, feeding it.

Though I’ve developed a mind of my own

and often have thought of living alone,

I’m too spoiled now to even dream it.

I’ve watched them become an old married couple,

working silently together side-by-side,

anticipating what each other would do,

through stiffness, aches, skin wrinkled and spotted.

Occasionally, they will clasp each other

tightly in a warm embrace—yes, thankful

for their loving partnership—besotted.