I Don’t Have a Poet’s Hands

I don’t have a poet’s hands.
Instead I have clumsy fingers
That grab at words,
Like a vending machine claw.
Often dropping them,
Cursing my lack of ability.

These are stubborn hands.
Grasping a pen
Like a hammer.
Driving words into paper
Haphazardly,
Sometimes hitting my thumb.

But they’re my hands.
I daub them in ink.
Covering them in
Scribbled ideas.
Then sometimes,
They let me write poetry.