Dirty Hands

September 7, 2011


I’m a teacher.

My hands don’t get dirty.

The chalk dust

is not like the indigo grit of the roofing tar

on my father’s hands

that took the magic globs

of Quickie to remove,

and the occasional paint or paste

can’t compare to the sawdust

caked on with sweat and blood.

Though I know it was his desire

for me to go beyond

his dirty hand blue collar world,

there was something lost.

These clean hands.

This new world.


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