I.
Wind flagellates the RSA.
Aograoroan sheets of shining stratus cloud
loom over dormant, busy mailboxes and eyes.
The pinch-faced, angry man
next door is always throwing out
his younger flatmate. I keep well away,
don't even know their names. Perhaps it's his
own son or other relative,
which would explain the other's patience and longsuffering.
II.
I found out later that it was his son.
