At the end of the day
He will have a body
Of work:  a road; a bridge; 
A  book.
And what will I have? 

A clean dining room table. 

Meals long since disposed of. 
Invisibly feeding cells
Or invisibly flushed down 
A different set of pipes. 

Tiny clothes, sorted
In a bag, all with tiny holes
Made from innumerable
Washes and wears.
Washes and wears.

Worn thin.

At the end of the day He will
Wonder why I am not
More. 
Supportive. Cheerful. 

Available. 

Since he does all the heavy lifting.
Since everyone can see the output
Of a road; a bridge; a book. 

He cannot see the betweens
of His blocks of time
Where He plans, and builds, and writes.

My blocks of time filled
With invisible service 

Big blocks

​Devoid of important conversations
With important people
(Unless you deem
Many words
Spoken to a child
Important)

I'm beginning to think that every tragedy
In the world
Ever,
Is the result of invisible work. 

Because we cannot value
What we cannot see

And our focus is so narrow.