I watch her work,
muttering as she stoops
and rises, rises and stoops,
methodically, relentlessly,
bending and pulling,
filling her bags slowly
in the weak morning sun.
Through crumpled cans,
old papers streaming ink,
thick bricks of refuse,
covered with a clotted
melt of cream, she threshes
until finally she discovers,
imprinted with deliverance,
her happiness.
Against the pane,
my lips intone with hers
as we breathe out
the mantra of the poor
and offer up our thanks
for daily bread.
