Bent over on the stairs she'd hover,
uncertain where her path went down,
sometimes accompanied by the bellboy
bearing a sheet or eiderdown.
Frail to the point of being gusted,
with faded dress and flat-heeled shoes,
she'd sometimes mumble some faint greeting
or tell a maid to clean the loos.
She must have lived here for a lifetime,
been through the war, survived the bombs,
always in tow with keys and notebooks,
with plumbers, brooms, and pregnant moms.
Sometimes I'd see her through her window,
smoking a long-tipped cigarette,
she'd idly stare up at the ceiling
or seem to feed an unseen pet.
The bellboy also was an ancient,
he'd sing while heaving some light bag,
and while the guests would run up gaily,
his trudging feet would often lag.
I haven't seen her for some days now,
and vaguely think something is wrong,
the house is quiet for the first time,
perhaps the bellboy stopped his song.