These Hands - WHY?

I wear the customary clothes of my time

Like Jesus did, with no reason not to die

Facing history with little to no irony

Like I’m some forgotten southern city Sherman razed

Still hid under thick smoke after all these years

These hands are my father’s hands but smaller

Soaked in paint thinner

Until they’re so dry coming together

They make the sound of resisting each other

A shrill squeal like two moving rubber tires touching

Hide nothing, hide nothing