She’s on hands and knees

with brush and pail

scrubbing the crud from your kitchen floor.

You stand in the doorway

like you’re the law’s star witness

and she’s a police lineup of one.

That’s her, you say to yourself.

An illegal alien.

Worse than a thief.

More threatening than a murderer.

But she’s good at her job 

and she works cheap.

Everything sparkles

like a TV ad.

Not just the linoleum

but the laundry.

And who’ll vacuum the rugs

if she’s sent back to Costa Rica?

You begin to worry

that the cops might come knocking.

If worse comes to worse,

you’ll marry her.