Digging a coffin-size square in the red
clay yard for the woman I barely see,
imagine me lying in it, eyes closed,
recapitulating my life in dreams.  

Her husband asks why I dig his wife’s hard
yard. I mumble it’s humble to do good
deeds. Bullshit he snickers, you ‘gentleman’
but doesn’t mind I borrow his shovel.  

My careful, steady work widens the hole
the length and breadth of a kitchen garden  
that I’ll fill with rich organic matter,
but who will till and plant it? I don’t know.  

Every act is infinite and discrete
touching lives of people we never meet.