Hands

I have a million hands.

One holds a flower,
another holds a wrench,

another scratches my itches
with tough-love nails.

One cuts my roast beef,
another pops it in my mouth,

another makes a fist,
another waves Hi,

one wipes sweat from my brow.
One remembers 

the slope of her breast
in its palm's concavity.

One holds a flower,
another a wrench.

Go figure.