Careers advice said, her hands are meant to be typists secretarial hands to help men

She’s say ‘no they are never’ they are a polite middle-finger-to-the-man pint-holding hands

Page devouring erudite travellers riding fifteen hands

Wild. Taming. Caring. Creative. Strong as a fucking tractor

These wrist-war champions can still drink all the no-you-cants under the table…

…And his hands were meant to be pit heat drills gaffered to inked pistons

Coal blackened tenement two-up, two-down bread and dripping hands

Back ally scrapping with smashed milk bottles for fun

But his first action man was Armstrong and he strummed Bowie on invisible strings

See, he has fairytales waiting at the end of every fingertip wire-thin with magical creatures living in them

His hands are safe hands they are playgrounds they are battling slapstick monsters with silly accents

His hands are so much more than the story they are telling they are the best storytellers, ever

These are the hands that made me and if there is any good to found in mine

It can be found in the palm of theirs