Woman with Mop and Bucket

She’s smocked in blue, like peasants by Millet

at work, a crook or pail in hand, or bent,

perhaps, for sewing, nursing, sheaving hay,

their faces worn by pity and consent.



The airport crowds have atomized by now;

the loos are nearly empty. There, alone,

she traces arcs, a model showing how

it’s done—left, right, ahead—as if to hone



her gestures as a dance routine. She sings,

a thread that rises, falls, and floats.

The words are muffled. Might her voice give wings

to home thoughts, in its melancholy notes?



I speak to her in English; no reply,

no recognition. I use Spanish then;

she’s pensive, unaware. So should I try

my Creole French? But no; to speak again



would seem interrogation. Does she see

me, even, leaning as she swirls her mop?

She is the body of the melody,

its mute existence when the song must stop.

Credit

From Aerosols, Catharine Savage Brosman, Green Altar / Shotwell Publishing © 2023. Used with the permission of the author.