Stop for Silver

Jenn, my boss, has the same hands
as my grandmother. The pair
from fifteen years ago that hovered
above her keyboard, tapped letters
as a skilled bird pecks for seed.
Patient but willful. Her wrinkle
at each knuckle, skin dipping
between thin bones only visible
for a moment when holding a pen
or fork, when her palm up gesture
made her diamond shift askew
on her left ring finger.

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