I have carpenter hands

from my father, widesquare,

shortsquat. The scout who

came to see him at his 

high school in Rochester,

New York when he was

their star pitcher said nope,

those fastfingers are too

far tucked down in your

palmpads, we won’t wow

them with those. So what

did he do: he sawed with

them instead, split

things apart or held 

them together, spent 

them like water everywhere

seventy-six more years.

The same day he slid 

out as if they were his stiff

old workgloves, I wore them 

home from the hospital.