The silence of the house reinforces the loneliness of a house-cleaner,
a reminder of her selfishness.
The whiteness of the cloth is soon blackened, along with
her worn hands that now look as if she had worked in a coal mine that entire day.
The forks are the hardest; their sharper-than-average prongs pricking her
fingers through the thin sponge of the silver cleaner.
It pleases her and gives her satisfaction to watch, as the hopeless black rusty
handle becomes her own reflection.
As clear as water in a pond on a brisk summer morning,
she stares back at herself, wondering if, maybe,
we all need a little polishing every six months or so.
I think this is lovely. Thanks.
ReplyDelete