Knee Pads

"DishWasher"

What is this lukewarm water that my hands sift through?

What is this nuance of temperature that tingles even the awkward cracks in between from the knuckles to the tips of the fingers I recognize as my own slightly less with each passing sun?

What is the veracity of this sting my intuition begs I avoid as steam stacks like smokestacks?

What are these hairs that stand on the hands that god gave me,

And what should he want me to want to want to be doing with these awkward appendages while I stare at their reflection in stainless steel and iron wool?

For I am a dishwasher and I suffer the anguish of being a nameless faceless necessity analogous to kitchen appliances. My hands suffer the physical requirement of my literal function and yet not yet to the standards my lassitude. It’s an endless cycle; I rinse and clean, and scrub the soft spongy tissue away from themselves and the metals they filter. Its only thing that changes, we erode to replacement while cast iron is built ceiling high by modern ancient peoples.

What are these gouged craters in between the unique schisms of my fleshy fingers; bones, blood and tissue, it’s all they should be.

What is this crimson wine that sloshes and pours translucent through and through, out and out gaps of my mangled ligaments?

What is this ouch we call discomfort?
What is this subconscious supplement for incited justification we entitle pricks and pains, hurts and sorrow?

Why is it we’re all synonyms for a journey?

Why is it we are all synonyms for a single archetype, pushing keys, pedals, and pens towards a deviated monolithic prosaic, yet not, epitaph?

And why is it when I try to live vicariously through your eyes I find myself questioning, questioning everything around my lonely denominator.

Why is it I am commonplace, and common place for three pronouns that produce gravity substantially larger than any other word in my vocabulary?

Why is there weight like a backpack composed of my skin, my thoughts, my hopes and dreams fastened taught around my calves, changing my changes to bullet-time cut scenes, slow enough intuition guides my delayed motions.

And why is it I can stop?
Why is it I can gaze around and look at you?

I can see you;

I can touch you.

I can ask you your name,

Where you are from,

What your favorite color is,

And prioritize the meaning of our connectability like couples dancing

And twine our connections like a poly-textured scarf notorious for the warmth and tingles it momentarily imbues each other’s skin; bones, blood and tissue, it’s what it should be.

But only for a moment may I allow myself to venture towards your tangibility,

To venture towards your malleability.

For there is only me,

But if I am,

You can and might be.