Delicately, her fingers graze the piano keys,
floating from note to note.
Her nail polish is chipped at the tips. So much
for that twelve dollar manicure.
Around her nails are red, raw skid marks,
bits of skin hang at the end
and pink, fresh layers emerge.
Her middle and forefinger smell of lingering
smoke, an ever-present stench.
On her left hand, a cheap silver ring.
Dull and smudged, the engraved words are hard to read.
Be the change.
Quietly her hands carry a tune, the image as powerful
as the sound.
Soft, yet rugged.
Young, yet experienced.
Her hands tell a story, dying to be held.