i washed my hands tonight under
hot water and i kept wondering while i washed because when i was done it
they, that is
my hands were still dirty, and so i wondered there by the sink and the water and the dirt going down the drain, i wondered why my hands are never clean
and i sat back down at my booth where my favorite waitress came over and took my order and i hid my hands under the table so she wouldn’t see all the cracks and creases filled with the dirt and the black that won’t won’t will not
will not, mind you dearest darling do
not clean, not clean, hot water and soap and scrub scrub scrub and why does it matter?
you see because lots of people have things on their hands like tattoos and such
and blood, and guilty consciousnesses and the like and such and all of it but you can’t see that blood, you can’t see that guilt and that worry, not on your hands. people they don’t seem to care that much about that
but god forbid there’s some grease on your hands or some dirt under your nails or some wrinkles in your shirt god forbid good god get out get out
so i hid my hands and she invited me out for a drink after work but i don’t drink and i don’t go out, not like this, not with my hands so dirty so i made some excuse and she smiled and the wall was back up and she was the waitress again and i was that guy in that seat
(does he even have hands? i’ve never seen them hrm)
my dad’s hands are never clean, and i still love him. but when i look at his hands and i look at mine, i realize i have never seen his hands any other way except stained, and as far as i know he was born with stained hands, whereas i was not and i know it and i remember days when i had pink soft hands and well now i don’t do i son no i don’t and so now like always sleep is reminding me that i have certain responsibilities and so vivaldi and a blanket and the darkness between rest and fatigue, shall we dance?