The Barista's Hands, Or, The Clean Swipe

Waiting for the coffee, my eyes drift,

they always do. To the counter,

the stainless steel reflecting the sad

fluorescent gleam. And her hands.

The barista's. They move

with such a practiced, unthinking grace.

Not graceful, no, that's not the word.

Efficient. A purpose.

Short, clean nails, no polish,

a small white scar just above the knuckle

on her left index finger.

She picks up the rag, damp and folded,

and wipes the surface,

a steady, circular motion.

Wet trails follow the cloth,

then vanish, quick,

like thoughts you almost caught.

Her grip, it's firm, not tight,

just right. A tenderness, almost,

for the cold, hard surface.

A small, private act, this cleaning.

I watch her knuckles whiten, then relax,

and think of all the things

those hands must do,

away from here.

Just ordinary, strong,

leaving things cleaner than they found them.