My clothes
Might as well be scrubs
My hands
Pink and raw
From steaming water washes
Seemingly hundreds of times
During the dinner rush

That hunger
Returns every evening
Like a thin cat
Staring down a hole
For as long as it takes
Until supper peaks its head
Out from dirty depths

I draw in a breath
And the long sigh of time spent
Pours forth
That only I hear
In this chaos of my making

The surfaces, wiped
Bare naked
For the next masterpiece
To materialize

Amanda Niamh Dawson is a poet based in rural northern California. Trees, stars, and everything quantum inspires her writing. Her work has appeared in The Avocet, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Bloom, The Fib Review, Rosette Maleficarum, and is forthcoming in Pomona Valley Review.