Dada has stories from Calcutta
wrapped 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!

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 oddity
or do we ignore it?

Do we shut our eyes to it
or poke it with a stick?
Do we clobber it to death?