These hands are not mine
They don’t look mine
Is that a stranger’s hand
No, it is my good old hand.
The mount of Venus
Has run out of love it looks
The mount of moon
Seems to be on the wane.
The constant companion in gold
The wedding ring three decades old
Struggling to hang on
Finding the finger thin.
The palms once pink and plump
Now look creased in a slump
The palms now designed with black spots
No lady Macbeth am I to damn the spots.
When I exit this chemistry laboratory
My hands will be back in the old glory
With all chemicals flushed away
I will rule the day.
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