street-loud, under the ceiling,
she tries to mop it up with
sponges and soft words
to no avail, dancing with
the broom, short strokes
dragged against the nap
of the carpet, blue, red, green,
blue, red, green again, the
one last stubborn thread (a
strand from a scarf?) immovable,
immutable, curved into a question
mark she marks and goes on
her way
