Nine O'Clock, Tuesday

At nine o’clock, Tuesday,

The gardeners,

Their eyes hidden

In beekeeper hats,

Pass silently by.

On the water,

Ducklings dodge the fish

That swallow them

With one quick gulp.

Only the water

Circling out and closing over

Says something ever lived

On the surface of the lake.

At nine o’clock, Tuesday,

The cleaning lady enters

Without a sound.

Her eyes slide past

The gardeners by the gate,

Her soapy silence

An answer to the language

Of their machines.

At nine o’clock, Tuesday,

As she plans her busy day,

Her eyes slip beyond

The quiet lake,

Seeking to translate

The languages she knew

So long ago

Before she lost her voice.