These Hands

	I wear the customary clothes of my time,
	Like jesus did, with no reason not to die
	Facing history, with little to no irony
	Like i'm some forgotten southern city Sherman razed
	Still hid under thick smoke after all these years
	These hands, are my father's hands but smaller
	Soaked in paint thinner,
	Until they're so dry coming together,
	They make the sound of resisting each other
	A shrill squeal like two moving rubber, tires touching
	Hide nothing, hide nothing