Working Hands

I look down at my hands,

The hands of an old man.

What work have they done?

What work is left in them to do?

These two riddles resting on my keyboard,

Frozen, immobile, useless as a limp dick,

Waiting for direction, guidance

From some Great Understanding,

While my brain whizzes and whirs!

I look at my hands and see

- for the first time -

That I write with my hands.

Suddenly, writing loses its abstractness,

Takes on the solidity of labor,

Suddenly I am DOING something!

I stare at my fingers as I type:

Writing is the work of my hands!