living to live
A Lesser Extreme
.
The brittle bristles
On her scrubbing brush
Are cracked and worn,
Her polishing cloth frayed,
And in between
Each piece of silver she shines,
Blossoms a dream
From the musty cellars
Of million dollar mansions.
Dusting off family portraits
Framed in 24 karat carvings,
She wonders about a friend
That was lost in her long days,
Ended in between pages
Of the romance novels
Read but never lived,
Felt but never touched.
Across the room
An envelope leans against
A hand painted china doll,
Inscribed with her name,
Inside it, a worthy note
To satisfy a hard day's work,
But that is not why she comes.
As she locks the door,
And sets the alarm,
Her cellphone rings,
And she hears the same sound
She has heard every night for 27 years,
The voice of he, whom she will never meet.
With a soulful smile,
She perches herself regently
On the ripped vinyl seat of the cab.
She nods to the cabby peering into the rear view mirror.
She powders her nose.
Another day,
Another cab ride,
Another walk up the stairs
To her one bedroom flat.
She drops a shiny quarter
In the rusted can of the man sitting
On the stoop next to a sign that reads "will live for nothing".
She runs fresh water over her houseplants,
Eats, showers, and reads.
And says good morning to the night.
.
