127th drive]
our hope is not here.
in my heart, i watch the
colors fade.
i wash your hard day at work
i mend your button
and watch your color fade.
your cheek will turn,
not fade; it cooks,
burns, it bleeds
and soon too hot to touch.
i mend your buttons
and wash your troubled day.
i stir pots for five
or six, then seven til close
to morning, ready for your
comfort, i prepare my best
peace with patience and
prepare for the fire which
will come cause you are home now.
your cheek swells as you
trance through the walls,
around the edges, lucid your
pace, the arms begin their
swing your skin anxious
it builds upon its layer of
cooking coals, a blaze, you
raise a fearful fist oh,
but not so quick -
just enough to empty any
hope i had for the day
i prepared with peace.
you press your strength
against my weak
limbed kindness;
my deep rooted patience
and brand me with your long hard day.
my one day off
from my days i wash the old people
but i wash you.
i wash your plate
your bowl, your socks, your boots,
your hate, your potatoes
and your meat.
i wash as i watch my color fade.
i sew and cook,
clean and hook
on to any hope i can muster
for the coming day.~
