There it all is, some would say,
The oyster filleted and spread before you,
The whole man encapsulated in the contours of wear and tear.
Where do we view the secrets of the inner self?
Are they so displayed somewhere?
Do pathologists read them on your brain tissue at the autopsy?
These leather-some lines of interest we live in:
Are they chosen?
Or are they the serendipitous residues of a diverse experience?
It is something to ponder though isn't it?
How the lines on ones hand can tell our most intimate details,
Yet we stumble around in insomnia-ic shadows.
I'm certain there is a book on it in our library.
A baby boomer with a thing for crusty skin and silk head-kerchiefs,
Ensconced in a fairground tent can tell you all your mysteries.
Now I'm afraid to do anything that might injure my hand.
I sit with it propped upon a cushion in the lounge surrounded by jars of moisturiser
Afraid the lines will be damaged. Afraid they may even be broken! Oh God!
If the lines on my hand tell the past and present,
And if what you do with your hand determines your future, I won't last till next week!
I have my son's nappies to change!