His hand I remember

I am in a train
from the airport to town
and back home
near the entrance doors
reading a weekly.
The train is quite full.
Two young girls
standing near me.
They have immigrant background
yet speak fluent Dutch.
They have sweet voices and
are in a cheerful mood
but not loud.
They are well dressed
and well groomed
and pretty looking.
I want to tell them how much I like them
Of course I keep my mouth shut tight.
But I can’t suppress a smile.

In the bus I sit
A group of Germans get in.
The two men are tall, bigger than me.
One tall one half in front of me.
I spy on him from the corner of an eye.
One of his hands is at eye level.
This hand is big and slender.
Like that of a statue.
I ponder and wonder.
What hand is this?
What kind of life does it have?
How does it say hello and goodbye?
How does it grasp a key
and hold a pen and a cup?
How does it eat
holding fork, knife, spoon
how does it rest, sleep?
Where is it going now
and what will it do later?
I listen to the voice of the handowner
and glance at his face for a second.
He is young and robust looking
his voice clear-cut and solid.
Like of a self-conscious adult
feeling safe.

I am at home.
It’s one day later.
I listen to music
and write a few words.
I can’t remember
what the man
with the nice hand
was talking about.
His hand however
I remember.

Mila Ness (26 april 2017)

2017  /  Pœzie  /  Teksten