Post 19 of 30: My Hands

Another old piece, from April, 1991, in an English class at McHenry County College. Write about your hands, the instructor said. No need to rhyme this time.

Looking back at it, with four kids, it's a wonder that the dishes were ever done. I still try to keep the kitchen clean, washing and putting away the few dishes that might have been left from last night while the coffee is brewing - kids are grown, now - and picking up most every night.

And I still write computer programs, and feel that I'm nothing more, really, than a tradesman of the 90's and 00's. White collar? Maybe, but still a tradesman.


My Hands
© 1991 by Mark Dopita

Lovely?
My wife's hands are; not mine
Mine are homey hands
Full of oil from the car
Dust from the attic
Paint
The deep yellow, smelly, dank "stuff"
From the innards of a pumpkin I just
Carved for my kids

My hands are workman's hands
Hands of the 90's
Hustling out of file cabinets
Bustling over the keyboard
Bellied up to the desk
Coding computer programs

My hands do the dishes, the water roasting
The pots, pans, glasses, silverware
The house owns my hands at night,
The job the day
The sink constantly re-fills
Overnight, somehow

I long to awaken
To find the dishes done,
The sink drainer empty
Of last night's plates