What's in Your Hand?

What do you hold in your hand everyday?
Something so close, besides your fork,
Or your spoon, that you behold it every day.
That you care for it,
Marvel it, even, sometimes.
What else do you handle that shapes the hand it's in,
While the hand shapes it as well?
Is the top of your steering wheel shiny?
Is your hammer's handle blackened with five stripes?
Your shot shell loader (yeah right) have that oily groove for your thumb?
Can you still read the digits on your phone?
Your remote?


What do you touch with your tips everyday?
Something you carry close, something you need,
But still feel it odd and new?
Does the finger-smudged touch pad on your garage door opener reveal your four digit code to professional economists and amateur mathematicians?
Is the speed dial button for your wife wiped clean by oft ignored then redialed calls?
Do you like the pop of this keyboard's buttons over that?


My hold is my hammer,
The things we've done,
And the heights we've climbed.
I've lost more than I've worn out.
And I've held a hundred,
But I've always kept a chosen few, at least for a while.