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Marks
by Barbara Southard

There’s something to be said
for marks made by use—

the darkened handle on a hammer,
a wedding band reduced to a sliver
of gold, concaved cutting board
hanging on the kitchen wall.

The finish is worn to bare wood
next to the old door knob
where knuckles have rubbed
for sixty years:

scrubby boy hands turning the latch
just for the joy of making things happen,
misshapen joints of an old man,
the first fumbling efforts of a small child.

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