Little Something

There is always
a little something
on my hands

Watercolor.
Coffee.
Flour.
Ink from receipts.
The day’s small bruises
pretending to be color.

I left home
without enough time
to wash myself clean.

And no one here
questions it anymore.

They see it now
as part of my wardrobe

the stained hands
the tired jeans
the woman walking in
with a whole life
still drying on her skin

This is the real job.

Not the dream of it.
Not the pretty version.
Not the poem waiting somewhere
with clean hands
and better light.

The restaurant is paper.
Payroll.
Bills.
Repairs.
Food cost.
Heat.
Voices.
Doors opening.
Someone hungry.
Someone late.
Someone always
needing something.

And still
my hand opens.

Still
there is color.

Proof
that I came here.

Proof
that I did not vanish
inside the ache.

Proof
that even when love
shakes me loose
from myself

even when anxiety
climbs my legs
like electricity

I return
to the life
that has my name on it.

My real work.
My real struggle.
My little something.

These hands,
stained and tired

still making.