Standing behind the stone-cold counter,
she jams another piece in the squeezer–
The size of a fist – it turns and twists,
extracting her life like a weary weep.

She smiles at a million faces,
but their eyes never meet;
they order and hurl abuses,
like it’s silence they are trying to seduce

At last, lively streets die down –
Another night spent in servitude,
traded for a livelihood.

And the cold midnight wind bites,
chilling her tear-streaked cheeks
as she crawls home.