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Arvilla Fee
Working Hands
I stare at Dad’s hands
perched on my teacher’s desk
like two plump pigeons
and my cheeks flush hot;
Dad is wearing his best blue shirt
and a pair of unripped jeans,
but he couldn’t clean his nails?
Not even for a conference?
Grease, the labor of a thousand cars,
lies under each nail, black half moons
shedding inky light on the lives we lead—
single trailer, cracked kitchen counters,
a front door that never shuts
without a shove from the hip.
My teacher smiles and shakes Dad’s hand,
her creamy skin like fine silk stockings
against his burlap palms.
At home, Dad cooks steaks for dinner,
and as he cuts the tender pieces,
he nods to my plate and says,
that was a ’57 Chevy.