Old Hands

I see my hands old for the first time.
The backs of the wrists are turkey flesh.
And the fingers have seen better days.
On flexing them the hinges crack. Still
the tips are baby pink, and the nails,
varnished by the years, are brightly clear.
 
My horned hands speak for the rest of me.
Eloquently sometimes but mostly
fumbling my chances, and not putting
the finger quite on the pulse of life
for fear of stopping the blood supply.
 
I suppose the time comes when the tips
must harden and lose their nerve-endings
and touch will be a thing of the past.
I will lament the loss of feeling,
numbly wondering what I’m missing.
I think it’s time to buy myself gloves.