My hands are stained from work,
That foam insulation stuff
Leaving them looking permanently dirty,
Wearing off only with the skin.
The things that stained them in life,
That stuff never wears off,
But builds up over time
Making them ache and twist,
Swelling the joints.
They have long since begun the change
To old man’s hands,
Getting blotchy.
They’re hands I’ve beat and scraped
Against life’s abrasions,
Hands, for a long time,
I’ve worked hard for.
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