My Grandfather's Hands

They were the kind of hands

that could fix things.

The carburetor kind.

The re-hanging-a-door kind.

The hands of a man

who did not call professionals

because the word professional

still sounded expensive.

I have his hands.

I don't know what to do with them

beyond typing.

He would have found this funny.

He would have found most things funny,

had he stayed long enough

to see what we became:

people who pay someone else

to fix what he would have fixed

before breakfast.