she wouldn't be in for work today

perhaps too young

to see such a thing, a mere

child

of sorts,

with shaggy hair,

and loose

cloths,

together we knocked

and entered

the quiet room,

the building manager 

using her

key,

so many on a chain,

a silvered clump,

and me,

behind her,

inquisitive as i came

down the hall,

but there, on the bed,

below

the ironing board,

the iron

still hot, though the steam gone,

her dress

for the new day, still wrinkled

stretched out,

the blouse on,

as she lay

face upward staring

at the blank ceiling i had come

to paint.

who was she, who would

know

that she wouldn't be in for

work today,

or the next and then

never at all.