Tidy

My granny’s hands
were crooked,
skewed like
willow limbs
in high winds.

She said they’d
been that way
for decades-
work-induced
arthritis.

Two of her most
helter-skelter digits
were breaks she had
no time
to reset.

Demolishing walls and
mending crumbling houses
was a job
far too involved
for a bone-tending moment.

But still,
she played Beethoven,
notes smooth as
melting
margarine.

Never, not once,
complaining of pain
as she’d strike the keys
like matches-
until the whole room
burned with music.

Unless you peaked
up over the grand,
you’d never guess
the state
of her hands.

And unless you asked,
you’d never guess
her clothes were
smartly
thrifted.

You can have nothing,
she’d say-
you can live in a shed-
but have sense enough
to tidy it.