by PETER ROBERTS
She was never fooled by his parting kiss.
When he was out it was easier on her and us
– the neighbours. No screeching arguments or
smashing of vases and worse. Her sobbing
breaking the calm of a windless night, seeping
past the cypress wind break and under
the fence into our souls.
Our house was new. Built by the government
for types like us who had fallen on ‘hard times.’
There were stacks of them, side by side, filling
about ten streets. The locals called it Warsaw
or The Bronx. You didn’t disclose this
address with pride.
He left her eventually. A blessing! And we,
one by one, left also –one to the city and
the rest, after owning a dwelling, to God.
We always knew we had to escape – poverty
with its peristaltic pedagogy, our most
compelling teacher.