the skin on my fingertips
(left hand, index middle ring)
peels back
week by week pads of cells toughened
   by steel strings with a
spider hand fixed on chords
are worn down,
replaced by pen stains,
hot early morning showers,
hands gripped to a wheel
in preparation for a real future

this is the inbetween.

I drive home on the edge of day
and the verge of night,
the only time when all is done
but all is not yet changed,
when colors shine from above,
but pale,
like hope

and I am the inbetween.