Tiny black insect
brings food back to colony.
Ant is born. Works. Dies.
Big green crocodile
cannibalizes its young.
Reptile is born. Dies.
Greek columns entomb
noble words of white marble,
but some are not free.
Bang, bang-bang-bang, bang!
(Gestapo makes an arrest)
"Stop or I will fire!"
Like a wind-up toy, his two paws twist and wring,
uncontrollably like an obsessive-compulsive tic.
The constant moving is not so energy depleting
that it slows the twitching at his hand joints-
at wrists, fists, fingers, and especially thumbs.
Lubricating cogs and levers are nature's WD-40,
sweat, forming at creases, rolling down edges.
Extremities simmer from the underlying blood
flowing from wrists to palms to fingers to tips.
All blushed except for knuckles blanched white
with the faint prints of his own biting teeth.
Five skilled digits command the old chiseling tools,
with strength and grace and purpose, they sculpt.
Hammer held tight by a well-toned musculature;
fingertips worn down smooth; nails cropped short.
Pasty hands would surely welcome rays of sunshine
but stay pale from indoor work, some heavy lifting.
Paint streaks up the arms from a recent portrait,
yellows, reds, blues and all the secondary colors-
camouflaging healed cuts, nicks, and scratches
that are the wear and tear's occupational hazards
for those who shape the canvas and the stone.
The jewelry adorning her hands speaks volumes.
A diamond tennis bracelet serves the right wrist
as the mother rock engages the ring on the left.
They whisper leisure and luxury to all onlookers.
Her hands are both pampered and manicured-
soft, smooth, and supple with a gentle caress.
Fingers on display-unblemished and flawless.
Nails shine deep crimson, reflecting like glass,
each tip long, equally proportional, and curved.
I wonder if her hands have ever worked hard:
scrubbing floors or picking cotton? Not ever.
Gripping weak but shaking strong, my hands
operate independently from my own control.
I remember when they obeyed my will
with knitting, needlepoint, and sewing,
and playing the piano and organ for my choir.
My hands were not always frail and crooked,
nor tracked with purplish arteries and veins.
My wrists were not achy and sore back then.
My fingers were not stiff and bony like now.
Age and sickness thinned my once thick skin.
Now I sport my gloves for warmth, not style.
At 69, I look at 66 year-old Violet Roundtree and think about her honestly, historically, and holistically. Dark as a child, she's even darker now-and more uniformly colored. She has shrunk dramatically in both size and weight since her youth. Her body-once plump and firm-is asymmetrical and mushy. Her once tight, smooth skin is wrinkly-loose.
Like a ripe plum in season, in her youth she was showcasing stores: well placed, always on display, showing ample skin, and relatively pricey. Probably because she was fresh, juicy, and fleshy then, she was picky and sour too.
These days she can still be found in various stores around town, on the sale days, and if you know where to look. But like prunes, she is relegated to the back aisles-easily missed, covered up almost completely, and cheap.
However to my perception, time and chemistry have mellowed her flavor. After long consideration, I realized that the former young tart has matured into a wholesome, sweet lady. A plum choice, I pun to myself.
I welcome your feedback. E-mail me at: palmermcdonald@hotmail.com
