On Saturdays she stays inside
to wipe away the residue of the work-week
covering every surface of the house like dust.
She scrubs and scours every seam
in between feeding machines
cycles of dirty then clean.
All the while she knows.
In the kitchen
fruit on the counter
is going soft in spots.
Dates threaten to expire.
In the freezer things are beginning to burn.
On Saturdays he stays outside
in the circumference of the yard,
slicing limbs off bushes and trunks of trees
He hacks back foreign vines
threatening the fence line.
Piles their carcasses high on the burn pile.
But all the while he knows
weeds are sneaking into their beds
unseen insects tunnel underground
searching for holes in the foundation
to lay their larvae in.
There is no end to the week.
Things left too long untouched
harden and cling to surfaces.
Even soap leaves behind a scum.
At the end of the day he comes back inside.
Pollen particles float from his clothes
and mix and mingle with the everyday
molecules of skin, lint and hair.
Then, for a second in the sunlight
streaming through the open door,
they see the invisible become visible.
filling the house,
over every clean surface.