I feel so strange when she’s cleaning my house
while I’m writing away in my study.
I’m half-tempted to join her on all fours
scrubbing the tiles, waxing the hardwood floors.
Not only that but she’s an older blonde
(older than me, I mean) and also trim
like a movie star. Back where I came from,
ladies like her have maids who look like me.
How odd to have the tables turned on us—
tables which she has polished, I might add.
I try to ignore her and do my job—
working her language—while she writes me notes,
misspelled and overpunctuated
with exclamation marks: Bathroom lite’s broke!!!
Need more Murphy’s Oil & Mister Clean!!!
Whatever she asks for I indulge her brands.
Once when the local paper did a piece
on my writing, she asked about my books.
I gave her a signed copy of each one.
She never said a word about them.
She probably thinks I’m wasting my time,
writing, rewriting, filling the garbage bin.
(She’s emptied it and seen the dozen drafts.)
One of these days, I’m going to ask her in
and show her that I’m also working hard,
polishing verbs, sweeping out excess words,
mopping up sticky adjectives, adverbs,
hoping to make her feel as much at home
in her own language as she makes me feel
in rooms that rhyme and sparkle with her skill.