There she is out in the cold.
Old coat buttoned to the chin,
sinewy hand on the metal pail.
The weight draws her to the left.
It is though she has always walked that way.
Her hands are large and leathered.
She carries the pig swill;
grain for her chickens.
Everything has a purpose – food or money.
Her boots suck in the dark ground.
There is no sun here; just drudge’s shadow.
Her face is locked in resignation.
This is her, beyond her grand home:
wainscoting, grand halls, velvet curtains.
She leaves her boots at the door