Hands

The wind, the wind, always the wind.
Pulling every drop of liquid from my skin.

Washing, washing, wash them again.
Hands wet to dry to wet all day.

My skin is dry, dry, dry.
Desiccated, cracking.

Sandpaper fingers, red angry knuckles.

Tiny scarlet crevices seeping blood.

Scrub off the sandpaper, rub in the smooth
Grit your teeth.  Wait just a bit.
The sharp sting will chase away the pain.

Gloves.  My life is already full of gloves.
Gloves to keep off the water at work.
Gloves to keep in the lotion at night.
Soon gloves to keep out the cold.

And winter hasn’t even begun.

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