For the Ones Who Are Never Written

Sean Thomas Dougherty

The man in the corner lifts his hands

to mop the floor. No one knows his name,

but they call “hey you.” He does the labor

no one wants. He hums a half-broken song

as he wipes the blood from the floor. The song

is older than the building, older than the song

his mother sang while folding sheets at the motel. 

His shoulders hear her voice, her labor

without a day to rest, her smock stained with light.

She smelled of soap and bleach. 

He watches the nurse chart vitals. Her work

is endless. She hums a different song,

one she learned from her daughter, whose name

is stitched into her scrubs. Her hands

are tired but kind. She moves through the harsh light.

She’s learned to live inside this labor.

The janitor mops, whistles while he labors.

The same song plays in the breakroom

where another sleeps with her hands

folded like a prayer beneath her face.