Ten years from now, a hotel maid
will pick through her trash for the tissue
where she blotted her lipstick.
A matted bit of hair pulled
from her brush, a pair of pantyhose
with a run down one side.
Everyday objects given meaning
simply because she touched them.
She will no longer be able to speak
every word that she says
and every gesture she makes
will be dissected and evaluated
for its larger significance.
Now she clips her nails and brushes
the cuttings into the trash. She
a tube of lipstick, old but only half-used.
Her bathrobe is tied loosely
at the waist, one breast exposed.
On the mirror, a heart traced in steam.
She leans forward and spits blue foam
into the sink. If she were
even this spit would