I’m not clumsy, it’s just my hands
My fingers long and crooked
My wrists; they shake, they jerk, they twist
Knicks and scars where rings would be
My hands are just clumsy is all.
They have worked tirelessly through the years,
They have been burned by ovens and kissed by lovers,
I've balled up tight fists to pound and pulverize dough
Clung to a knife carving to reveal the angel inside the meat
Fingers have been slammed in trunks and doors, and rarely are they ever neat
These tinkering tentacles twist and trace the trails of your taut tummy.
They linger, long and limber, lightly over your lower lip for you to lick and lust.
Crafty crawlers creeping closer to your secret corners
Clinging, climbing, clawing at your cool fucking hair
I do love the skill of my hands, though never soft to the touch,
Still tender and calm when resting in yours.