John Garth Raubenheimer
Cleaning For Mrs L.
I'd see you crouching down by your front door:
your pastel colours through the frosted glass.
All ready to spring on me with a roar
- old women do roar - the instant I'd pass
that one bright red rose on the garden wall.
'Just going by my door, I saw you turn, '
you'd cry, beckoning me into the hall,
the door flung open, on your cheeks the burn
of guilt and pleasure: company at last.
Pretext was the cleaning. I'd carry on
polishing, dusting the black-and-white past,
while you prepared a cup of tea, a scone.
Then we'd sit down, the excuse fell away.
You talked, I listened for my cleaner's pay.
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Comments about this poem (Cleaning For Mrs L. by John Garth Raubenheimer )
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