Bad Poetry: Hands

Opa, he wears wooden shoes and with the short coat
the sleeves pushed up past the elbows
he looks like a dwarf, though
in perspective he is taller than the woman.

I hear the shoes on the cobbles
for good reason the Dutch call them klompen.

I wore them, sometimes, to go down the driveway in the snow
to get the paper and have to stop halfway back
and walk barefoot.

Oma
casting her shadow on the wooden doors while
the dog at her feet pants and looks and tries not to be nervous
that he's a bit overexposed.

They're
in the same photograph but
with the corner of the brick wall beetween them
maybe different worlds but no.

They had sons.

They came to America
maybe
he brought a few pairs of wooden shoes
and that coat with the sleeves shoved up past the elbows.

They brought their hands.

His hands are Dad's hands, long, bony, fingers curled from working.

His caress the cows' udders
drives tractors and
strokes his wife's cheek with the back of his hand.