Calloused Hands Poem by Jason Jackson

Take a walk down my street,
see the depressed, weary faces
don't try to make eye contact
examine your new shoes and laces

you can come into my front room,
we will discuss the world at war,
I'll make the tea & share some biscuits,
you will leave in your 4.5 litre car

I will hang out with cool, trendy types,
it's ever so good for my image,
but when substance is needed, over style
my past is all I envisage.

So, take a look at my calloused hands,
believe that there is a much simpler view
share with me, that which is not straightforward
and join me at the once sparse pew.