the marble stoop

i remember

her as 

a grey bird on the stoop.

skinny

arms and legs,

a shock

of white hair bundled

up

on top of her head.

she's on her hands

and knees

on the marble 

porch

scrubbing with

weak might.

the sun is hardly up,

she's taken

the paper in, the milk

and butter,

the cream.

the coal will come soon

for the basement

window.

she scrubs the porch raw

until it's

shiny, then rinses it with

a new bucket 

of water.

at last, 

not unlike her soul,

it's clean.