You want to know, when do the black ladies come?

Outwear on them is the long black T-shirt.

Long black A-trousers.

Small facial O-mask.

No trace of M-ake-up.

But. They always wear cloud-white sneakers.

You want to know, when do the black ladies come.

They're there to clean out the mess, dirt, rooms-all-muddy?

Black ladies, they come, do yucky stuff and then leave.

Then they do leave us.

Quiet-non-disturbing.

No rustling sound; nor tone.

But. They always possess snow-white souls.

They're there to clean out the mess, dirt, rooms-all-muddy.

Black ladies, girls and boys. Are they ladies and gentlemen too?

They are deftly left behind, to follow, picking up leftovers.

Leftovers: to-go-to-be-gone.

Whatever that is.

Not edible. Not drinkable. Useless.

But. They always speak pearl-white words.

Black ladies, girls and boys. Are they ladies and gentlemen too.

Pushing their strollers, burdened with fulfilled white bags of trash?

Trying harder. The hardest. To push it for a square centimetre.

A square centimetre of love.

Red rainbow love.

Not bestowed to them. Borrowed.

But. They always love each other and they love themselves.

Pushing their strollers, burdened with fulfilled white bags of trash.

Black ladies. Black youngsters. Black nannies and their grandmas?

Planted. Grown. Cut down. Processed and packed.

Packed with small-print-etiquette.

Best before tomorrow.

No additives; nor dried salt.

But. They always have so very sweet-heart. Packed inside.

Black ladies. Black youngsters. Black nannies and their grandmas.

Maša GL