September 25, 2009
Syrupy brown, the sticky plate lounged,
Water bleary and mysteriously dark.
Tongs and the whisk intertwined,
While the fork floated by on his back
Smudges of grime dirtied the cups,
And they had no strength to float.
Instead they sunk beneath the water,
Along with the biting knives.
Fingers grasped down into the sudsy lake.
A curse then, and a quick withdrawal.
But soon the pink hands returned
To do a woman’s work.
Scrubbing for hours as the children yelled,
Little light streaked through the glass.
Rubbed hands raw and crimson,
Working as the hours passed.
A chink of finery and tinny squeaks
Along with the rush of water.
When finally hands were removed,
The skin was pinched to bone,
And she turned off the water.

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jooooolieeee said...
Oct. 13, 2009 at 7:44 am
YO whoever wrote this piece of art work is the bomb diggity shizznit. i dont know her or anything, but shes amazing and awesome in every wayyyyyyyy:) nah but ferreallzzz this poem be mad good.
LouisD said...
Oct. 13, 2009 at 7:40 am
i like love this poem, not just because the author is like my like friend, but her writing skills are like AMAZING!!!!!:) She is so talented @ writing and the english language! We are in the same writer's workshop classroom and im telling this to her as i am writing this!
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