Those Hands That do Dishes

[71degrees]

Those Hands That do Dishes

Old pots and pans never die,
they reside forever in the limbo
of soapy water and drying rack.
They may disappear as you would
expect Houdini's plates to depart
but like bad copper coins, they return.

Marigold gloves
on the other hand
live for three washes.
Their decayed insides
smell with the stink of old palm
sweat expelled inside rubber souls
melting the skin into pasty white.

I find it odd that the poem is about everything but the hands.  The title makes no sense.  This is a poem about pots, pans, rubber gloves, and melted skin.  Where are the hands?