My maid,
a domestic woman,
stands in my doorway.
Her short fat legs
bend inward,
they are bruised.

My maid,
a domestic woman,
stands in my doorway
looking into my eyes,
she has brought groceries
for she cooks,
and she cooks so well
that I think of her children
who live in another country
who know her only by
white envelopes
filled with my cash.

At night,
I'll take my
socks off
and watch television,
then I look at
her and she is smiling
at her cellphone.