It's not the way you look at the cleaning lady

and how her hands move while winding the vacuum's cord.

It's more like the way you ask her

what her name is.

And she answers with a tone

that tells you more than just the answer you desired.

Her story is far different from what you'd imagine,

her lungs sharing each breath with you.

You asked her for her name,

you got a lifetime of regrets.

A few broken heart strings

like the keys of an old piano—



their sound soft, but not quite manageable.