Night Duty

She slides her tunic down the board to iron
steaming smooth old pleats. As another episode
repeats its blue-glow, a laugh-track of distraction.
Downtown in her mind she smells the ward
mopped slick to citrus, maybe pine. It aches into
her ankles. When the last coal on her fire grays,
and her iron simmers quiet, one or two
cars flash her window blinds shushing rain,
she flicks her living room back to dark
and the timer on the thermostat ticks off.
On the step, she ties black shoes loose enough
for a little room. A box of leftovers marked
tomorrow’s name slaps her in her tote, clipped tight.
Sachet of instant porridge. The bus at night.