(seen) Through A Hand At Arms Length Poem by martin elbin

Nails and palms all cracked and creased with too much use
and calloused, bleeding, worn and tattered with abuse.
Beyond these blades all dried and still
collecting dust from having very little help to be a fan,
screech and scratch (at least I think they might some day)
from rust and dirt that has overtaken purpose.
Wooden, scraped and dirty floors
lonely chairs that do not bend with ease any longer
and old, old notices of trips, games and dances.
Posters on the tired gray walls,
blackboards white with chalk dust
from years of working, playing, plugging every possible thing
and - oh yes, space.
Too much space but not enough to call forever,
enclosed by walls that stand as long or only for a day.