Looks down upon the street,
she, the young woman.
Sees ladies in fine dresses, parasols,
and the painter, sitting on the cobbles,
with his brush, his easel,
his cap an open mouth eager for pennies.

Just a maid, Molly
scrubbing floors, toilets,
just an old blue dress
simple white cap, no parasol,
no ma'am.

Caged as the canary in the
gilt bars she polishes,
but oh, so much more
she dreams wishes
draws pictures in the dust
words images spring to her
beautiful mind
and still just a cleaning girl.

Her bare elbows on the sill
she sits and dreams, longs,
breathing deep the Brooklyn air,
oh to be free even to starve
like the painter, but to live
a proud existence

And he looks up, the artist,
sees her, the lace bonnet,
brown curls, the hunger in her eyes,
the beauty in her soul, and without thinking,
paints her freedom