I will never understand
this person behind me--
seated, hunched,
cross-legged on grass,
shade-hidden, spilling her soup,
squawking above birds--
me on metal bench,
shifting for comfort, sifting
through pages--
not her language, more
her tone, abrasive,
more: loud--
me on metal bench, arms
stretched, soaking sun,
odor alive, pulling pages
from pockets,
more: quiet--
hers a ground zero,
bombed, disturbed--
me writing
(do they hear my scratches?),
waiting, watching--
"What is she saying, and
why do I care?"
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