An Author's Hands Poem by Roger Gerald Hicks

- - - -for George Embry, unsung great bass man

On my right thumb, at the joint,
a sore throbs.
The scab won't seal a dime-size wound,
yet I'm as proud of this emblem
of manual labor
as some of their diamond pinkie rings.

At eight my hands were soft.
George, my guardian, glorified
callused hands-
disparaged my solitary reading binges.

His hands planted and hoed,
repaired bamboo fishing rods,
hauled crab nets from the frigid
mire of San Francisco Bay.

They restored engines to vigor,
shot a rifle, and cradled sick dogs.

They rattled pans on the stove
Sunday mornings;
tightened Ball jar lids in late July.

George's hands were often grease
encrusted, scabbed, cracked.

His backhand disciplined
unruly boys,
but his broken-nailed fingers
tossed countless baseballs
to squinty-eyed catchers.

I'm yet addicted
to flipping pages with fingers
child-soft,
but I've never lost
a deep abiding respect
for calluses.