An Encounter with a Madwoman

I watch her as she approaches.

Heels digging into soft carpet

Yet the harsh cling clang of 

Her files bristle in her bag

She turns and 

But why must she look into the mirror

And only see us?

The child clamoring for attention

Behind a silent smile

Painted face and glassy eyes

A voice that counts miles

And a hand that hands out our tithes

And a measuring stick

The child screams through a vacuum

Behind translucent lens

She hears the chatter

Of the easy way out

Calm voices that flatter

And her palms with her fives

And a measuring stick

The

Woman knows her place.