Could sprint to it from her door
Her mother cooked white bait and crabs
Over low embers while the men drank
And they danced in the sand as the sun set
War came and took her family to a
different land
She wakes now to parrots in palm trees
Radio blaring strange words so fast
She barely understands
Her uniform is washed and ironed
It will dry as she waits for the bus
The keys rattle on her belt like jewels
In her own land she might be a princess
Here she cleans houses for tourists
She alights from the bus
Adjusting her head scarf
And walks the rest of the way
Following the map given to her
By her employer the previous day
Square white houses all look the same
But the map steers her right
She puts key to lock and enters
Adjusting her eyes to the light
Polished floors, walls white
Two stories of empty space
She considers how many family members
Of hers could live in such a place
So she wipes down benches, empties bins
Mops floors, dusts shelves
Refills the air fresheners
With a vanilla scent reminding her
Of medicine mixed by her mother
She once took for a fever
And exits, leaving this house empty
Just like the house next door,
And the house next door to it,
And so on,
Catching the bus back
To the one bedroom apartment
She shares with her mother
Brother and his son.
© shaun patrick green 2016
