The Grip

I scrubbed my knuckles until they were raw,

trying to hide the things that they saw.

But the grease is a ghost that refuses to go,

etched in the valleys where the callouses grow.

I practiced the greeting, firm but not tight,

under the buzz of the bathroom light.

But my palm is a map of the shifts I have run,

of the heavy lifting that’s never quite done.

The lifeline is black with a permanent stain,

a smear of the engine, a streak of the rain.

If he takes my hand, he’ll know right away

I’m only worth what he’s willing to pay.