what it was

she wasn't on her hands

and knees

for the purpose of cleaning

the stoop.

it was something

else entirely.

her hands raw

and red,

her nails broken on

the marble steps,

while the suds

rolled down the side

walk

to the curb

and into the street.

it wasn't about the sun

on the gleaming

stone

when the last pail

of water splashed

it clean.

it wasn't that

at all.

what it was, was never

said.