Washing Eight PM Off My Hands

I am
eight pm off my
hands it
is not
any of my fault
on how all the girls (I
work alongside)

like they are Hispanic

and all the boys look
like something is not quite
right like something
is burning
once or now
lying ashy
there around the
eye or flare of
small tender mouth
and left about

how I
smell of honey but not
the certain kind of honey that is
at eight pm washing off of my hands.
a different kind of honey. and he is leaning over
the steering wheel of a car that is not his
own wondering why the sun must
hide himself round evening
time and if he could

the radio
would be a
life support
sent off
like a seed
to tell the
darkening world the weather at this time.
next time.
neither time.

some thing breaks the window.
poorly baked things on hand crafted
shelves and tiled little lace flowers.

this is not the truth!
not one single word of it!
there has never been such thing...
start once start over.
once there was a hammer.

and there were old women baking chatting nicely young men flexing their bows or the feathers 'round arrow sheathes to bring home rabbits for the old women to bake carefully and arrange neatly. and the old men play fiddles when it is 8 pm and there is honey to wash off hands but it leaves behind a certain perfume that is nothing at all like honey

that is not the
truth either
which explains--