Might be half a worker's sentence

Cleaning ladies shouting in
Spanish across
their too small sad
wood (composite) lunch table
with what looks like
tons of food to be shared
smelling great like
I'd imagine Mexican streets
do with warm tortillas and
whatever else in the warm
sun of old America summers
baking everything a golden brown
lovely ancient color
can be themselves
for a only those few stolen moments,
even in their dirty blue stiff
uniforms, with the half hour 
clock looming, before the 
boss man needs to eat
or have his toilet cleaned and
god-what-all-or-what-have-you
requires them
to snap those defeated, stoic 
masks back on and 
go to breaking their bones or
spirit cleaning up somebody
else's shit.