My garden is giant, the kind now referred to as a pollinator garden, with tons of bees and butterflies and worms and bugs, and I’m constantly trying and failing to keep even a few of the weeds in check.

My fingernails are permanently blackened and broken (gloves are not for me), my back hurts, I hack crazily from the Russian sage which I must be allergic to, my legs cramp. And that’s after a few hours, which is nothing.

This one goes out to everyone who keeps the world humming while the billionaires lord it over them: servers and mechanics and plumbers and caterers and farmers and housecleaners and personal care attendants and orderlies and shift workers and convenience store clerks and landscapers and farmworkers and everyone else doing the actual, unsung work of this world. 

By Their Works, by Bob Hicok

Who cleaned up the Last Supper? 
These would be my people. 
Maybe hung over, wanting 
desperately a better job,
standing with rags
in hand as the window
beckons with hills
of yellow grass. In Da Vinci,
the blue robed apostle
gesturing at Christ
is saying, give Him the check.
What a mess they’ve made
of their faith. My God
would put a busboy
on earth to roam
among the waiters
and remind them to share
their tips. The woman
who finished one
half eaten olive
and scooped the rest
into her pockets,
walked her tiny pride home
to children who looked
at her smile and saw
the salvation of a meal.
All that week
at work she ignored
customers who talked
of Rome and silk
and crucifixions,
though she couldn’t stop
thinking of this man
who said thank you
each time she filled
His glass.

Click here for more information about Bob Hicok. Today’s poem was first published in 5AM, after which Verse Daily featured it on December 24, 2002. 

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