your hands

the grime on your hands
is from work.
years of it.
decades. imbedded
in your skin,
mixed with blood
and callouses.
there is no soap,
no lye, no brush
to scrub any of
it away. you are
the farmer, the miner.
the steel worker.
you build bridges
and pave the roads.
you bend to the earth,
rising each morning
to do it again
and again. it's
all you know.