A) Marigold poem

I get up
put on a record
to accompany ironing;
the bump-bumping attempts
of the needle satisfy,
a plane trying to land.
'Scarborough Fair' for ironing shirt.

I am Here
fresh shirt, knife creases in trousers
I show the traffic where to go,
beckon, gesture, entice
command.
I am in control Here.

I wear gloves.
This is my one blemish.
This is how locals know
not to follow my directions
the gestures are for tourists
taking them away, awry.

My gloves are not white cotton
they are yellow rubber
Marigold, fresh each day
mum used to say, be clean for Santa.
I am, I am.

I know and I do not know
what I am not
I know that one day Someone
in Authority
will move me, beckon me
away from Here

People speculate, guess
weave stories of me.
I don't know why,
so how can they ?