Mitch McConnell's Hands

 A poem for Election Day, 2020.

Mitch McConnell's Hands

Hands say so much,

unwittingly.

Health gauge,

clue giver of day jobs,

generation revealer.

Ropey veins snaking

between knuckles

on those of a certain age

or the tattoo of a snake

disappearing up a sleeve

on an arm of rebellion.

Fingertips barely-blue,

pasty-white or nicotine-yellow.

Telltale nails bitten or chipped

or those finely manicured.

A sweaty handshake or the dry

grip of rawhide. The smooth,

soft clasp of the privileged.

Calluses. Scars. Liver spots.

And now a leading Senator's

bruised and bandaged hands signaling,

"Something's amiss here, folks."

As if we didn't know.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor