For Money

I opened mail. I tugged clumps of blueberries
from twiggy branches into a red pail.
I saved the files. I stamped them “confidential.”
I answered the phone in a calm and friendly voice.
I pinched the dollar bill with the receipt
and tucked them in your palm. I packed the berries
gently in pint containers, wrapped them, carried
trays onto the truck. I signed for the freight.
I transplanted seedlings into four-pack flats.
I told your future. I took notes. I washed
dishes, wiped down the counters, bagged the trash,
unloaded all the trays, then stretched my back.
I sliced onions without weeping or shame.
I showed up early. I smiled. I called your name.