Change

It's the hands 
the broken glasses 
the uncured warts 
the crooked brown teeth 
the washed out yellow whites of eyes 
the always slightly too long nails 
the round little beer bellies under nylon t-shirts, polyester jumpers, unzipped leather coats and shirts. 

It is the hands shaking,
heavy, broken fingers and rugged palms, 
mad manicures overgrown and deformed, 
these fingers that give me money and that I give money to, 
the tips so frail they look translucent, and almost never count the money back.