These fingers have grasped ceramic and glass,
turning and scrubbing dishes and instruments
of consumption. These hands have been immersed
in hot and murky fetid water, working and toiling
until the night has worn down to the final minutes
when hours of work must be finished.
The grime and grease of more than thousands
of leftovers stained on dishes must be obliterated.
These callouses break and reform through bleach and detergent,
these fingers have grasped plates, bowls, glasses, mugs, pots, pans, and every kind of utensil
imagined, cast away food half eaten, not eaten, thrown away food dumped in plastic
bags mixed with poison, for those just one step below to dig through and savor.
These hands have contemplated searching for sustenance, and so the mind
wanders, spine slumped over, the dish washing machine compact and half-working.
These fingers have ended nights with desire for a cold clean glass,
while the hand rests upon a common grail and ponders whose hands it has passed
through and ponders more the covenant between each proletariat.
That each and every person mind their own, and drink and sometimes moan,
but never belabor too much the plight of pointless labor.