These Are the Hands

Clean as the clothes they wash every day,

But cracked and bleeding from the soapy water,

These are the hands of the washerwomen.

Calloused, with rope burns and sun burns,

Large, used to holding heavy boxes,

These are the hands of the dock workers.

Streaked with shoeshine and dirt from the street,

Tiny, nimble fingers always ready to clean,

These are the hands of the shoeshine boys.

Smudged with ink from the press,

Eager to push a paper and take a dime,

These are the hands of the newsies.

Dusted with flour and smelling of cinnamon,

Scarred by the heat of the oven,

These are the hands of the baker.

Spattered with different colors,

Fingers grayed with charcoal and graphite,

These are the hands of the artists.

Soft palms with a callus and ink-spot on one finger,

Used to gripping a pen and paper,

These are the hands of the businessmen.

Gloved in silk, or leather,

Ringed with gold or silver,

These are the hands of the upper class.

Tan, pale, bronze, or dark,

Gloved or bare, large or small,

These are the hands of New York.