Point Made  A muscled hand pinned mine. It was a joke – a demonstration in a public room that I could talk without them.  Calloused hand: enormous, square-cut. I have ugly ones myself – or thought so till he caught them up in one deft swoop, and grinned. Immobilized in prayer position: quick-stop power-hand, snatching my gestures from the smoky air.                          Long-fingered men are known to move like that. Quick, slender hands – think surgeons, pianists. They have to; you expect it. But this hand held mine two-fingered, pressed against one palm relaxedly. While everybody watched. Like it was easy; like he might clutch birds mid-flight, uninjured.                                  “That would do it, yes.” I nod, judiciously; the hand lets go. And talk resumes like nothing happened there. But I know better, darn it. Kathryn Jacobs If you've any comments on this poem, Kathryn Jacobs would like to hear them.