sore thumbs

we don’t know which surface requires a coaster and which does not

we stick out like sore thumbs in our pew on a sunny sabbath

amongst the others who have come to sing and pray before the father

others who hold smiles on there faces and say loving things to one another

while we grimace when she pinches our side and let tears fall when the lyrics of praise pierce hearts and touch down close to home.

We fall in love with the odd house on streets near lakefront

not because it’s perfect but because mother just knows

The sun set and she leaped and splashed in the lake

The two of us had held positions while they looked through the house

and pretended it was a castle with a rounded tower at the front

The other houses:

new

did not entrance us the same

they were held together

like faces trying to please

Like surfaces made to look appealing

not to be scuffed by wine glasses and coffee cups

To him we were not sore thumbs, but workable fingers

we were the plates that get used rather than framed and hung

we were the surfaces with stains and countertops with scratches

we did not look put together

but we were being used

and we wore our wear proudly

like battle wounds, and tattoos

That was us,

that was our home

both like a callused finger pointed upward alongside the manicured and polished

callused and proud

that was us