Make-Work

Make-work suffices, she hurt.

Someone tossed a fistful of glitter

onto the porch. You could see it

through the raspy windows. You could

walk away, but she could not.

She stood there and waited 

for the tiny lights in pieces to go dark.

Sparks for morning. Something to do.

She thought the view important.

Something for her to chore away.

Would anybody know meant not a thing.

For her. She just moved ahead. By rote.

Not a flea's worth of import. Just

doing the thing, taking the heat. The hurt.