When you take
my hands

I notice how gorgeously
sculptured your fingers

are. An artist’s hands
moisturised clean

pinkened baby-fat palms
that’ve seen no graft.

My huge gnarly paws
my labourer’s claws

excoriated by the sun
are objects to be hid.

Whereas the world
should shout about

your angel-white
immaculate fingertips.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist