A sestina for the family

He wears blue jeans to work
He wears blue jeans to work.
They become black with grease, like the lines on in his hands.
He comes home in the afternoon
we hear his car in the drive
and when he hugs our heads we smell his arms
sweat, tools, the inside of a crane, here at home.

She is always at home
broken laundry baskets, loud ironing board, they are her work
and so are we, our place on her hip and arms.
The oven and two burners are on; and there are cramps in her hands.
She hears his car in the drive
and her day is almost over, in the afternoon.

We are playing in the afternoon
pretending to run away from home.
We’ll go to Iowa, the oldest will drive.
We’ll find jobs, and work.
Red Bandanas on sticks, with apples in our little hands,
We march through the house, arm in arm.

He’s at the hose with the gritty soap, washing his arms
the day is over and there is a breeze on him in the afternoon.
She uses a piece of metal to get the smell of onions off of her hands,
she takes a break, since everyone is home.
She thinks about what’s left of work.
He thinks of how the slave drivers drive.

We tell him what we did today, and where we drove.
And she waits patiently for his arms,
relief from a morning of work
being in the kitchen all afternoon.
When she hugs him, he smells the smell of home,
and he presses her in with his hands.

We carry forks, knives and spoons to the table in our hands,
while he tells her about the traffic on his drive,
or how he stopped by the bank, or the pharmacy on his way home.
And we carry plates to the table in our arms
and tell him about our trip to Iowa this afternoon,
and everything else we did while he was at work.

We hold hands, a family by our arms
his car in the drive brings evening from afternoon.
He and she are our home, they are faithful to their work.