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By Darby Hudson
Eight years old, and I’m captivated by the
brick-fingered, square hands of a
tradesman (tools that could strangle the
neck of horse)
They flick through a
wad of 50 dollar notes then deftly
double-noose a thick, red elastic
band around the cash-in-hand takings like
a close-up magician with
He is over to fix the plumbing as usual –
THEN the casual art of misdirection – the pipes of
Billy-Joel shuddered up so loud;
It was Up Town Girl –
Which barely suffocates the shouts coming from
my mother’s bedroom.
I never knew his face; just his hands.
And what they could do.
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