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She’s a Cleaner
 

She was tender, slender, walnut-skinned,

Her eyes a-light with steady-burning fires,

A crackling of energy you felt you had to smother out with words,

You’d overheard,

And so you asked her what she did.

Well she cleaned,

Washed the floors of other people’s homes

On her hands and knees,

Scrubbed their toilets til they shone.

If you only knew,

How little of her soul you’d excavated with those words,

While on some far and distant ledge,

There’s a life you’d never even thought of glimpsing.

What do you do?

What have you done?

Who are you?

Well, as a girl she travelled with Tibetan monks,

Across great mountain ranges,

Won her freedom with a six week trek

Held to nothing but a cloth bag and some hope.

Later on she studied French in Paris,

Fell in love,

And yes, she cleaned then too,

And bled,

And cried and laughed like you.

While she cleans she sings.

You know, she’d fill the Albert Hall

With the ballads she could sing.

Did she tell you that?

Once, just once she wished that she were someone else,

Could tell you what she did was be a singer,

An explorer, mountaineer,

Dancer and translator,

Actor, artist, mother, cook,

Lover, friend, deceiver,

Forsaker and redeemer.

What does she do?

Well she’s a cleaner.