Thick Skin

I wrestled that pickle jar,

muscle-bound grip, really,

for a minute there.

My thumb, where it pressed,

hard against the glass,

had this pale patch.

Thick, like old candle wax

left out in the sun.

It's strange, this skin.

I type all day,

tap and click,

nothing that should

earn this kind of shield.

It's not a badge of honor,

more like a forgotten scar,

a memory of some

past, rougher hand.

And it got me thinking,

where else

do we grow this stuff?

This tougher bit,

without even knowing,

just to keep from breaking.

Just to open

the damn jar.