Calloused
hands that carve or dig or plane,
roughed up, describe a textured
tale of hard years and harder days
whether laid end to end or stacked
in geologic layers: holocene, triassic,
permian. no oil struck or fossils
unearthed. jutting epidermal extensions,
thumb worn, subconsciously worrying
round and round. callous, unfeeling? or ultimate badge of survival?
Doing the best I can with what I have
kind of sad, but not so bad with cheese. cheese not provided.
My streams of thought meet here
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Life in a flash - a bi-weekly storytelling blog
MARK PETRUSKA | WRITER
Short essays about novels and other fictional works
By Ian Garrabrant
Home of Micropoetry, Literature, art and philosophy.
Just a fiction writer, trying to reach the world.
I'd curtsy but I'm drunk.
Movies, TV, music, Amarillo arts and whatever else I wanna write about
Praying for Eyebrowz 
This is a thought-provoking poem. I thought the pictures that went with it were well chosen too. I’ve sometimes heard it said that you can read all about a person’s life in his or her face and hands. That may be why I always wear a paper bag and a pair of gloves.
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My husband worked his way up in career. Started in a mechanics position–callouses, broken nails, the whole bit. He was kind of a snob to men whose hands weren’t calloused. Now he’s been in management for nearly half of his career and his hands are as smooth as the proverbial baby’s butt. I give him hell about it, too.
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“Quite right!” (he typed with his soft, uncalloused hands).
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Ha!
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Wonderful poem and excellently evocative images!
Now for the gentle editorial stuff:
1) Triassic
2) technically all geologic periods require capitalization but that’s grammar and everybody knows that “poetic license” really means “ß#£k grammar”!
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Oh man! I’ll go fix Triassic. I hate spelling errors. Probably won’t capitalize it, though. 😍 thank you, friend.
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