WEBVTT

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The hands of two brown men.

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Two strangers sit
together on a crowded bus.

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Two hands years apart
find each other bound

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By a journey east
on Lake Street.

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Both hands carry history.

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One is scarred, rusted,
split, dried, and wrinkled,

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A single leaf left beneath the
weight of some merciless sun.

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The other is embraced by light,

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Radiant like a
fresh coat of paint,

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Layered around four new walls.

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Across a sturdy frame,

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A home to bless the broken soil.

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Both are a window, a reflection

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When a firm grip
meant immortality.

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Now, his joints moan a prayer.

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Now, the water
glass crashes down.

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Now, he will learn to let go.

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Two brown hands on a
bus share their lives.

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All torn nails, calloused pads.

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Quietly, they teach
how to grab a punch,

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Shape it into words
on a sheet of paper,

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Arrange it like food
for another's plate,

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Guide it to an
open palms embrace.

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An offer of peace dissolves
the fist two hands.

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Their hands plan a
revolution, crack knuckles,

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Tap to a rhythm
only they can hear.

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One hand reaches
for the yellow cord.

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The other waves
a brief farewell.

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[APPLAUSE, CHEERS]

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Chi-miigwech.

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[APPLAUSE, CHEERS]

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