A Maid’s Tale
An unsoiled bed, my ragged dress collide
with the aftermath of sordid affairs,
musical protégés, and overweight pitchmen.
Lipstick lines mark the scenes of passion and regret.
The stench looms, seeping into the carpet,
an ugly 1970's retro.
Toiling in the noonday sun
out of breath, bearing the weight of a cart,
a vacuum tethered to one end.
Hands wear gray, soap-stained, chemicals dry in my hair.
The wipe of a brow, the arch of my back,
the stretch of the torso, to battle the grime.
On my knees to the porcelain god,
seeking its purity once again.
—Juanita J. Martin©2009
Published in Blue Collar Review 2009