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Dada has stories from Calcuttawrapped up in his big belly.When he belched they would unravel.
It's five past three.Sixty-four eyes look at me.No. Sixty-two.Not Matthew.He hasn't learnt to read my face.He's got digital. A disgrace!I reach to ten.
Next door live three old ladies. They’re sisters, well into their eighties, but to us kids, they seem beyond time.
What do we do with a difference?Do we stand and discuss its oddityor do we ignore it?
Do we shut our eyes to itor poke it with a stick?Do we clobber it to death?