And Who Am I

Today I’m a computer-gymnast practising in front of the
machine, one foot supple & lithe on the floor - the other
held aloft, changing feet & when lifting my left foot I am
a Cossack, a trépak dancer given my wide-flaring black
pants held together at my ankles with elastic; standing

Is just subterfuge, I’m dancing to Mantovani’s Swedish
Rhapsody actually - on my haunches kicking out legs
with big Russian boots & high hat - feather swaying as
I kick out and jump around, changing legs again: back
on the trapeze, swinging high in the air and suddenly

My partner puts a machine gun in my hands - I shoot
the intruder who was going to murder the Tsar - we’re
back in Tsarist times by the way - I swing onto rafters
& disappear leaving no trace, so that next time I can
be a Tsar-protecting undercover agent again, what

Fun it is - until I remember the French document, tightly
packed letters of a sad employee treated as a refugee
while having worked in France for many years; putting
aside my whimsy & moving up & down on toes I dance
into the text keeping my rhythm breaking sentences to

Bring verbs & nouns into British military lines according
to required Hallowed Grammar Rules to be followed with
unforgiving precision according to my superiors and so
I follow, who am I to differ...