To the man with hands like leather:
You used to rope the moon
in each night, tugging
on those thick and
heavily braided strands.
The knots would leave
red callouses, etched
permanently into your once soft palms.
Now, long after they’ve taken
your coat,
the one you sewed your most
precious memories into,
you’ve covered your hands
with gloves,
too ashamed at the scars,
not remembering the task they
were needed for.

Sometimes, you still dream of lassoing
the moon,
like in an old Western.