The house is still and warm.
Front door bangs to on
drizzle, cold, and foggy
conversation with the
work men come to
lay new cables with
their new brown hands.
They stumble over
English words, their brown eyes
hiding from another
round of "I don't understand".
Hunched against the dampness,
they think Spanish thoughts
inside.
The dryer tumbles to a stop
just as I step inside,
My cold hands dive
into a nest of toasted t-shirts,
basking in the light bulb's
yellow glow.
Outside it's grey.
Some time today,
brown hands will
end their day in rain
and take off hats,
printed with English words.
The lights will glow on in their
Spanish eyes, and Spanish
thoughts come tumbling
out like warm towels
into homey, waiting hands.
