The neighbour slams the door,
swearing at an unwelcome milkman,
expects his next guest to arrive -
the other he would like to murder.
The lady upstairs grates a coconut,
drags a chair across the room,
hopes it will drown the argument
with the other whom she cannot hate.
The child downstairs wails,
holds a gun to her parent’s head,
screaming for the brother’s toy -
the other she wouldn’t grow up with.
You chew weak tea without slurping,
read the papers, talk of the world’s woes
in your succulent prose while I respond in insipid poetry -
the other language you don’t acknowledge.
I continue to speak.
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