The Worker

By Damien Knight

 

Her eyes are a mystery

in them are stories I can’t read

her hands etched with lines

carved by bleach and time

She bends her back over the floor

hands grip her tool to score

her dark hair in a messy strap

lines on her face a closed map

Shutting out the fatigue and stress

people pass her thinking less

of her chemically soft hands

but of their own life demands

she stands a sign placed Cuidado!

An invisible worker she goes

 

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