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.