What is special about her?

What is special about her?

It is not the salad she meticulous, prepared for the kids
for the lunch, nor her hurriedly packed food
devoid of salt: how often she feels the life is without
pepper and salt, swallow the salad, she tells her ward,
she swallows many an injustice yet to digest,
there is a knock at the door by the gaunt man
fetches the cylinder,
the full weight on his shoulder,
he is overwhelmed by the reward for his
burden and service for he is used to
only pittance, she places herself in his position,
in the Almighty’s creation, the business about this
disparity and dignity is a continuous conundrum,
in her kitchen the milk cooker whistles beyond
the boiling point, pitying the enslaved,
what is the thud in the bedroom?
the wardrobe as if with a warring note pushes
the garments to be rearranged, with the same folds,
the deafening noise of the crackers
getting on her nerves, the mismanaged accounts
beckoning her calculating brain, the food particles,
on the teakwood table strewn, inviting insects
the flawed milk satchel to be replaced,
the reprimanding school reports of her ward,
it is too much for the little brain to assimilate
the listless list, yet her thinking self reassert
“thank God! You have given me a roof,
think of the roofless who mourn their grief in public”.