These Same Hands From on high, the mountainous hand Reached down and plucked up The asshole arguing over his right To be an asshole. I looked down at my own hands And my hands looked up at me and spoke. “Why didn’t you let us do that? Are you afraid?” These same hands have caressed a face, A breast, an erogenous garden behind a knee. They have openly wiped away tears at a funeral And secretly while watching a movie. These hands have hugged bears and quantum particles, Have baked blueberry muffins and built buildings. Written poetry and letters of love and letters of hate (But those were never sent). These same hands, my hands, stared at me and Waited for an answer. And waited for an answer. But all I could do is put those hands in my pocket and walk away.