I make the beds, I set the table
for both the believer and the rebel.
I boil the water I take from the creek.
I work by the day. I work by the week.
I fill the pantry. I empty the pail
of whatever it is I do so well.
I salt the real with the absurd,
I store the unseen with what can’t be heard.
Daylight and dark I break into crumbs
that feed the birds, one by one.
All the waste from babble and bile
I wash away, I wipe up with a towel.
I dust and mop, and shine and shower.
What gleams for you I’ve polished
for hours. This dull routine goes on and on.
Sometimes I like it but it’s never fun.
I have the dirty job of making things clean.
Once that is done, they say what they mean.