familiar with the tune
of their talking, comes tubling before them
down the stairs which (oh I forgot ) it was my turn
to do again this week.
My neighbour and my neighbour's child. I nod, we're not
on speaking terms exactly.
I don't know much about her. Her dinners smell
different. Her husband's a busdriver.
so I believe.
She carries home her groceries in Grandfare bags
though I've seen her once or twice around the corner
At Shastri's for spices and such.
(I always shop there - he's open till all hours
making good). How does she feel?
Her children grow up with foreign accents,
swearing in fluent Glaswegian. Her face
is sullen. Her coat is drab plaid, hides
but for a hint at the hem, her sari's
gold embroidered gorgeousness. She has
a jewel in her nostril.
The golden hands whith the almond nails
that push the pram turn blue
in the city's cold climate