Our neighbours

The man’s grey-haired, looks 40, never says a word.
This alone would speak books if only there was a way
To lift the dust of his stony silence and read.

Every morning he walks as far as the junction
And freezes there. His eyes blink
Twice a day only. Seems he’s looking
Nowhere yet each time the wind moves his hair
Someone somewhere dies, lies, steals or fornicates.

The woman’s not much younger, though still in her prime,
Her tomato lips know our children by their nicknames.
When we are back from shopping she holds the door
With a gentle smile. Only now do I realize
She is one-dimensional and tells things by the touch.

Their child, without looking first, all afternoon runs across the street.
Kids do not know how to play with him but they like his clothes.
He is tall for his age, if I am not mistaken.
When the sun goes down his laughter turns tangible.

They look like you or me, live next door
And go through our walls as they please.

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