she says "thank you".
"you don't hear it, i expect,
but you all do amazing work
and we are so grateful",
she says.
i become a statue staring
at this woman:
a grandmother too young,
dirty shirt
messy hair
crooked smile that barely lights on her lips

and i don't know how to tell her
that tonight i will go home
and cry
because no one has thanked me before.
yelled at me
slurred epithets: "bitch"
cried at me
spat bitter words of frustration
tried to tear down my soul;
that i have come
to expect. i cannot blame them.
our clients are bleeding.
walking through our doors
their hope sloughs off
and they stand before us with anger
as their only shield.
and their only weapon.

but thank you is a gift
that grows in my cupped palms,
a small eternal flame.
and to her i owe everything,
today.