These Hands

For a lifetime

I’ve used these hands, these muscles, these bones.

My body a tool,

to be used.

An extension of my consciousness.

My thoughts instantaneously transferred to an action by my hands. Sometimes before I’m aware of having had the thought.

Steel is the medium by which I earn my livelihood, milking my body to do so. Aging me. My hands coercing the metal to do what is desired.

To do what is required.

Age is taking it’s toll, the physical requirements on my body a hard burden to carry. Day after day, calling on it yet again, to carry the load. The stress on my body a measurable commodity. Trading usage for dollars, with diminishing returns.

Soon this tool, my body will fail to keep up. Unable to shoulder the load they will cast it and me aside. Laughing at my worn out shell. A day later someone else will stand in my place, to begin their long slow decent into oblivion.

Trading muscle for dollars.