Who’s this?’ the lecturer asked my daughter.
She said, all bare midriff with tattoo peeping,
‘Only Mum. She’s carrying my plants,
helping to move me in.’
‘Hello, Mum,’ he said, not looking just brushing
the leaves as he passed.
It was a plant my daughter felt would make her room
look familiar, lived in. ‘Like you,’ she’d joked.
At her doorway I placed it in her arms,
but it was his bustling back I watched.
He turned this way and that
distributing greetings to other beasts of burden.
Not waiting for their replies, either.
I called, too loud perhaps. ‘My name is Margaret.
I usually wear stiletto shoes, and pink jackets,
when not camouflaged as a removal man.
I cycled off road across harsh terrain for charity. If you’d looked
You’d have seen highlights in my hair.
I belly dance and have a name.
My name, again, is Margaret.