She wears blue rubber gloves
Middle aged, with light, brown hair
She pulls it back in a pony tail
Her eyes match her hair,
Brown, but dull and dried, uninspired.

With her hands, she holds a cart,
with a container of trash, black trash bags,
two wooden poles, and her disinfectant just below from where she holds.
She pushes it, and it rolls over the floor.

Her parents promised her a good life,
that she would attend a college.
She has made it.
She has late nights like every student
Like them, she visits the second floor of Wells, tired,
but in her brown custodian attire.

The lady makes her rounds every four hours
every day of the week.
Her legs and feet slow down every time she returns
And her worn out shoes decay even more

When she looks in the mirror in the restroom she can see the wrinkles  
           around those eyes of hers.
In a different time, she would have covered these areas with makeup,
but now she wonder, 'is there any use in that?'

We ignore her, we've seen her too often
She is like an invisible ghost,
you don't see her,  can't hear her.

She's is leaving now, after cleaning the restrooms, pushing her cart.
It's now 8:16pm, she'll be back at midnight.
I will see her then, before I leave
It's a date that we have, but only I know
but I'll ignore her, I won't smile nor talk to her.