Head, Heart, Hands

It’s all theory
Notes on a page
Knowledge accumulated from books
Written by somebody else
Hands clasped, or wringing
Nervously picking at the quicks
Around the nails
Staring at an array of tools
Waiting for them to speak
Identify themselves
Their purpose and import
But they sit dumb Idle useless
Just as he sits, facing the other way
Staring out the window at the rolling steel clouds
Over the burnished horizon
As the sun buries itself
In the russet dusk.