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A maid in a wrinkled smock
wheels out a black garbage can
higher
than her head.
Her face
a rictus
of fatigue.
She works up in the ass
of rich-house hell that
she enters in the morning
through the alley.
She fears
She has become
the maid
who empties
the garbage.
That this is no longer a role--
the mask
clamps down in gluey
fusion with her skin.
It is crawling upon her,
the knowledge:
what
she does
is what
she is.
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