They gather work and play.
Sometimes their torn and ragged
from the stresses of the day.
They feel, they touch, their steady.
though calloused they are gentle too.
Give them a job they are ready.
My bidding they will do.
The right one is my favorite
its surer than the left.
It writes, it throws, it shakes your hand.
It’s the one that loves a test.
….Now this causes liability
for because its use is greater
this surely means it holds more sins
than its slightly lazy neighbor….
I know its shook in anger.
I’ve felt it clinched in hate.
Its turned through pages dirty.
Its left an open gate.
Its struck. Its broken beauty.
Withheld from those in need.
It’s cursed you through the windshield.
Its scattered harmful seed.
It reeks of half my failures.
this hand that plucks the strings.
On trial I’m judge and jury
Its fate this question brings
It’s both beautiful and ugly
This hand with which I write.
To praise the hand that holds the pen
……or cut it off in spite..