Poetry

Rough Winter (Hand Lotion Blues)

The backs of my hands
have begun their
unhappy metamorphosis
First a coating of
fine grit sandpaper
that will soon bloom
into two sheets of
coarser grit that will
catch in my sweater sleeves
as my hand passes through and

Finally

Used
coarse
grit
cracked
bleeding
not at all
appealing
this gift
from winter
and all the lotions
are greasy despite
the lines the
marketers
feed me

But they know
I need it

All hoping to be the one
that sees my money

Categories: Poetry

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