The Unseen Work

The kitchen is quiet, the clock has a beat,

I’m standing here barefoot in four-AM heat.

I take all the cans from the shelf by the door

and strip off the labels to throw on the floor.

Peaches and beans, they all look the same,

stripped of the color and stripped of the name.

My thumb has the residue, tacky and gray,

from a shelf full of silver that has nothing to say.