Mel Brooks on Cary Grant

The Cleaning Lady

The cleaning lady vacuums in my sleep.  

She bangs the baseboard and elbows my door 

With backward strokes until she knows for sure 

That I’m awake. Her mop resounds on chair 

Legs as on gongs. “I am,” her signal says, 

“Here.”  No longer able to persuade myself 

I can ignore her, I rise and take refuge 

In the bathroom, where my upside-down bottles— 

Sunscreen, tooth gel, shampoo—are all now right-side-up, 

The practiced signature of her erstwhile 

Presence. In the kitchen I assemble breakfast 

Amid her bombing pattern. Open doors

Guide a cold breeze up my robe. I shelter 

In my room and write, but as if unaware 

How important this poem is, she interrupts 

To ask if she should peel the little labels 

Off the apples. Pondering the depth 

Of her sarcasm I calculate her 

Hourly wage for ironing my briefs,  

And endure. I cultivate the dignity 

Of my ordeal. What comfort, after all, 

Folded underwear at a later moment.  

I remind her to iron my jeans creased

So they’ll resemble pants, one of several 

Ways she’s onto me. Her missing teeth,

Complacent smile and mustache as she stands 

Hosing the terrace plants, barefoot and ankle-

Deep in run-off, irritate my sense 

Of possibility almost to nightmare—

A boy caught in her hands of cronish lust, 

For she is older even than I am.  

But now her hose shakes off a stray cascade

That slaps onto the balcony below: 

The downstairs neighbor, ancient enemy,

Cries out and I become the cleaning lady’s 

Smug ally. Schopenhauer was right: 

The only happiness is in despair.  

Marooned by her intimidating order 

I play cards with the cleaning lady.

The Book

A Romantic Play about a Witch, a Wizard, and Their Marital Shape-Shifting Difficulties

Robert MacLean is an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi and Scanbox, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a film reviewer, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. Committed to making movies that don't matter. No brains, but an intellectual snob.

“Like all that is best in life I am quite useless.”

In Bed with the Girls

The Light Touch on Amazon Prime

Film review: Hillbilly Elegy

The Natural Wish to Be Robert MacLean

Also on YouTube:

Boccaccio’s "The Husband" 

Boccaccio's "The Horse Trade" 

Boccaccio's "The Stupid Friar" 

Chaucer’s "The Miller's Tale"

"Red Devil Rag"

"Attack of the Giant Feminists"

"But Is It Love? Or, The Destruction of West Los Angeles"

To his Coy Mistress

Oh, Money! Let me hold you in my thrall.
Caressing your sweet shape is paradise.
No matter through what dark abyss I crawl,
To have you when I want you is real nice.
Your grainy, faintly powder-dusted touch
And vaguely minty smell when you are fresh
Grow leathery when you’ve been handled much,
Your wrinkled softness wise almost as flesh.
The Freudians have called you excremental,
Romantics say you’re bitter and alone,
But I know you’re just coy and temperamental:
The hard-to-get are pleasantest to own.
I’m satisfied to take you from behind.
It doesn’t mean you have to love me too.
Ignore my passion. I don’t really mind.
I want it all, and that means having you.