Calloused

I'm always asked it every time I work,
"But surely you must need some gloves to wear?"
When I say no, they think it not a quirk,
But lack of knowing what will come to bear.
The truth be told, I always have on gloves:
The toughed skin that comes from hard, long toil.
My life has always pushed, and still it shoves
Hard work in front of my way to uncoil
My joyfulness from having rightly earned
The benefit of working inside doors--
But being too experienced has burned
A brand that keeps me out of certain doors.
I work, I lift, I toil, and still I strive
To find a way to soften that what's hard
And change to that that's more alive
And capable of giving what I want regard.