Today it is the once a fortnight when my cleaner comes
and I find myself telling him who I am: who I once was and still am,
although yesterday I wished he wouldn’t get here quite so early.
As I write, I decide after all not to request a change of time / person.
I find myself telling him I’m a performance poet, a healer, a witch.
When I was younger I didn’t tell anyone those things; I was afraid.
As I write, I decide not to request a change of time or person.
(I couldn’t have known this rapport would suddenly flourish.)
When I was younger, I didn’t tell anyone such things; I was afraid …
Anyway, I want to learn more about his time as a circus clown.
How could I have known this rapport would suddenly flourish?
(I had a dream, myself, for years, of being a trapeze artist, flying.)
Anyway, I want to hear more of his time as a circus clown –
although yesterday I was wishing he wouldn’t arrive quite so early.
I dreamed, myself, for years, of being a trapeze artist, flying ...
Today is the once in forever when my cleaner and I share stories.
Written in response to a prompt from
Pádraig Ó Tuama from Poetry Unbound:
What time is it? (It's pantoum time)
(His instructions don't include the traditional pantoum rhyming –
or any rhyming.)
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