Other Hands at Work

Fingers pinch a corner of that crumpled pastry bag,

dusted with flour like new snow on worn gloves.

The barista's hands, clumsy and sure,

sort through a tangle of wax paper,

a small ritual unnoticed by the hum of morning.

A smudge beneath a nail,

a tremor in the wrist—

these hands press folds, hold heat,

fold wrappers like they might keep something safe.

I want to catch the way those hands hesitate,

as if the world paused just to watch dough rise

in the soft light spilling over steamed milk.

Hands, other hands,

doing the ordinary

like it means everything.