Someone else’s hands

Rough hands twisted the chain,

fingers stiff, stained with yesterday’s dirt,

a quiet stubbornness I could almost hear.

Under harsh morning light,

they worked with a rhythm no one notices,

like the slow turning of the world

in small, unnoticed fights.

There was nothing graceful in the way

they struggled, grunted, and pulled,

but something fierce beneath the grime,

a silent claim on the day not falling apart.

I watched, held by the roughness

of hands that carry more than tools—

a lifetime of doing just enough

and not breaking completely.