Mr. Pierce was a
Mechanic. In the
Second Big War, he
worked on tanks and
trucks and jeeps
and other things
that mechanics might
work on in war.

His hands were sort
of a dark gray,
from all the grease
and oil and years
and years, his
fingernails the only
clean spot on those
hard used, elder
hands. Oh, they’ll
never come clean.

He killed a man,
he said. Those
dirtied hands had
pulled the trigger
on a rifle, aimed
at some poor fool
with a different
patch on his
uniform.

He washes his hands
after every meal,
and he doesn’t
even change his own
oil these days,
but his hands
are still that gray
color, and oh,
they’ll never come
clean.

He says that blood
and oil run a
different sort
of color, but
it all stains the
hands the same.
He washes his hands
after every meal,
but oh, they’ll
never come clean.