Infinite Loop

Day and night, the sopping rain.
Three to four inches, says the weather
reporter; flood watch across lower areas.

The mail is damp and spongy—bills
and bulletins, plus the annual notice 
of assessed value on our home

labeled "This is Not a Bill." I chop
celery and onions, shape meat
into a loaf cemented with beaten 

egg. I set the timer. It bakes in the oven 
while I clean the greasy kitchen tiles. 
A few days from now, with a sudden 

surge in temperature, the yard 
will fill with mushrooms, some 
on the stump of a tree cut down 

years ago. All this moisture feeding 
the spores that lurk in the soil and air,
saying there's still so much work to do, 

until life comes to an end. Then we'll 
lie back in the earth drained to the  bone,
oblivious to purpose, currency, and cost.