Lady's Maid

She rolls the tea cart down the hall,

Past portraits hung on every wall.

The cups all clink in measured time—

A quiet dance, a soundless rhyme.

She pours the brew with practiced grace,

Then wipes the crumbs from satin lace.

The golden trolley leads her round,

Her ballroom floors, the only ground.

Though she just serves from tray to tray,

Her silent steps still dream ballet.