You know her, one of the women, who shuffle
among the corporate desks, or down the hotel halls,
when others are at supper or a bar or asleep.

She carries for the term of her shift
the bucket and mop and toilet brush
and knowledge of those things in life

the rest of humanity prefers not to think.
She laughs with her friends at breaktime.
She smiles at the boss, wishes him the best,

and wonders where all of it goes, the dreams
of her girlhood, the desires of her soul,
the life all the fairytales promised were hers

for the having. She will not complain, but sigh,
in a way only those who have sighed with her
hear as the blues, a union of misery and of joy.

She is no Madonna. Her children are never born
anointed. At death, there is no resurrection
for her. She bears it and gives life to who she can.