She poses.
Dusting the chandelier
Head slightly tilted
Shoulders strong
Her dainty hands
Go about their business.
She moves gracefully
Yet with purpose
Just like she had
All those years on the ramp.
Firm lines
Strong face
Mouth a silenced 'O'
Her signature walk.
The Wrought-Iron Beauty, they called her
Ebony skin, stoic eyes
Her look - hard and grey.
To the envy of the rest of the staff
She is a diamond in the rough
They know.
She knows.
Nothing goes past her -
Stolen glances
Whispering
Gossip
About her age
Her lovers
Her addictions
And her downfall.
It all stands out
Against the backdrop of
luxury she cleans
Parchment lamps, bohemian vases,
Raw silk curtains
As raw as her wounds.
She scrubs hard and fast,
with mustered vigour,
Spots vanish, stains disappear,
But shame remains.
Like that one scratch on a plate
she can never get rid off,
One slip that
Obliterates the exquisite vase
Into a thousand pieces
Of guilt
Of anguish
Of fear
Telling her to flee from the scene of crime!
But she stays.
And cointues to dust.
The storm inside her has calmed.
The chandelier needs to sparkle.
And my oh my, if she can't make it.
