My knuckles are like rows of houses. A battered block that tells stories upon my hands.
Hands where peach colored graffiti fades on my skin— stretches and shines across
the brown brick walls. These houses are sturdier in some spots more than others.
Rough neighborhood hands where each house is a bit moodier than the next.
These houses have pummeled plaster and crushed drywall. They have smashed
windows and broken in doors. Scars swell with pride as they look down at other
scars scaling past finger streets and housing on backhands. They reside with hilltop view,
deep inside these resident scars through to the joints’ core there is pain. Arthritic pain that chronically cracks.
Tension builds between the residents of these houses. These hurt houses get worse
come cold. Joints rub wrongly and tissue tightens causing an ashy coat to cover.
Umbrella-like pigment offers some deep shade atop these knuckle roofs when it’s
warm, from pink to dark brown. The tans in between each residence, like lighted walkways are remembrances
of the innocence. Childhood before shattered windows, cracked panes, broken doors, and crumbled foundation.
A time when these houses were homes.