HANDS

 

I saw Gary’s hands when I was ten:

he taught me Sunday School.

He was a newly minted doctor:

I liked his gentleness and purpose

and wondered

what he might become?

 

His hands had soft black hair.

At home in bed that evening

I looked at my hands and

imagined them like Gary’s,

traced where the hair might grow.

I wondered, what would I be by then?

 

I took the medical path,

served briefly with the church in PNG.

Having seen what could be done

with jabs for whooping cough,

hygiene for gastro,

I moved to public health.

 

In time, my hands resembled Gary’s,

but now my hair is lost.

Game’s played; the score struck –

the sum of wins and losses.

My coin’s in the offering plate,

lesson’s done. Until next week.