She swept, mopped floors in buildings bigger
than any dream she’d ever known; knew nothing
about the men upstairs in suits and briefcases carrying on
like everything mattered, mostly them.

Who cares about them and that, her?
The way she walks or what she thinks
really doesn’t matter. No one will remember her,
loves her now, or after.

She is gone already to the world,
sweeping and mopping, dusting and wiping 
up the mess of men. Her dreams are small and fading-
she really doesn’t matter.