The speaker stands outside a house, or imagines doing so, and takes in what can be seen: an old door that seems to hold the quiet inside, and a garden so still it looks like a table laid for a feast. But the feast is made of stone, so nothing here can be eaten. The picture is calm, but also a little eerie, as if the place has been set for guests who never arrive.
The closing question, "who might cook in there / and who eat," shifts the poem from description to wonder. The speaker doesn't know whether anyone lives behind the door, and the poem leaves that open. The title, "Division of labor," adds a quiet joke: it hints at a household where one person cooks and another eats, yet we see neither. What remains is curiosity, a gentle sense of mystery, and a hushed mood in which emptiness feels almost like presence.