Handshakes

With a viselike clasp,
and grimy as their necks,
the men of Father’s
generation had heavy paws.
Before the extension,
out of courtesy, the palm
was first swiped
down a soiled pant leg.
Rough, calloused,
tools in and of themselves,
those dirty hands
were never paper-white
and soft like mine.
Scarred roadmaps, each
had a story to tell.
Bearing blackened nails,
cracked leather,
sometimes missing a joint,
all were tattooed
with indissoluble grime.
A little dirt, Father
taught me, is the currency
of trust and respect.
Today’s cumbersome hugs
cannot compare to
the arms-length meeting
of the other’s eyes.
Or so it seems as I recall
the grip and grit of
their honest handshakes.