Run your fingers across my palms.
Feel the years.
Get to know the calloused left fingertips
that tried to play forgotten and familiar
tunes.
Abraded by cat claws and glass,
scars from a playful childhood.
Cash registers, steering wheels, pencils,
keyboards.
An honest day’s wages made by these hands.
Writing words of wonder, regret, life and
love.
I traced circles around your breast,
rubbed your weary muscles,
cuddled you close.
Shut the door.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 