She Leaves Her Boots At The Door

There she is now, out in the cold.
Her 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.
Work fit, they say in these parts.
You have to be up early to beat her to graft.
She carries the pig swill;
grain for all her chickens.
Everything has a purpose, a reason.
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.
There, there is wainscoting, grand halls,
velvet curtains.
She leaves her boots at the door