The Cleaner

The Cleaner

My cleaner is here, she’s from Angola has many
children and is abandoned by her husband; she is
very efficient cleans very well, but she smell and
I often wish she would remember to scrub herself.

I sit on the terrace it’s covered so it doesn’t matter
if it rains, and I feel wretched and middle class and
wonder if I’m a despicable racist for thinking this
way she’s a good mother and work very hard.

She knocks tells me she’s ready to go, I pay, open
the front door, smile and say: “till next time then.”
scold myself for not being more friendly; perhaps
I ought; let her go and hire one I don’t feel sorry for.