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