Grasped Hands

Grasped Hands
Eric Kobb Miller

On a steaming hot afternoon
of risotto thick air, a man sat on
on a park bench with time on
his hands and stared at his
ticking palms.

The deep sweep of time had
drawn serpentine lines, as if
his skin was sand.

On the knuckles atop, he saw
the bumps in the road, over
which he had stumbled and
which callused his view of
scenes seen.

Blue highway veins ran by
the finger forked turns he
had wrongly made or missed,
while handshakes never offered,
and others betrayed, haunted him.

Life had tipped its hand on
the hands into which he peered,
and fingered and nailed him to make
a case that didn’t need to be
made, as he had made his own
case, by his own hand.

He turned to me, his youngest
grandson, and grasped my hand.
We walked, he talked, and I listened
to words that glistened and still
shine in my heart to this day.