I don't know anything about people

I am often struck by the hands
That clamp the cold pole around mine
As I balance gently on the inside skin
Of the hurling metro car:

four fingers with wiry black hairs
on the back of the knuckles
and a worn wedding band.

strong fingers, French tipped,
a turquoise bangle dangling
from a carefully arched wrist.

a great grip with thick knuckles,
a bitten thumbnail,
a scratched watch.

They shift, our four hands, as we sway
In strange light, the skin
Stretching and moving, our thumbs
Leaving fingerprints where thousands
Have been left before.

-Maria