downstairs, a world away

to that neighbour i like,

to him, to his old-fashioned clothes,

to his young man's body

trapping an old man's mind,

to him, i want to say,

my parents moved away 

from who you are now

about five decades ago.

in a clot of amber

you exist 

between ages.

musical, kind,

dogmatic, superior.

you remind me of another,

a friend's father, a clever,

controlling man; patriarchal,

mellow, oily.

i don't know you well

though you remind me of camphor smells 

from my friend's house;

of incense and incantations that 

my parents refused to

embrace.

but you, i look at you,

fortunately childless, and diligently 

happy, preserving, perhaps,

an illusion of your father's life,

like i try, sometimes, to preserve mine.

we'll never ever be friends.

but at times we talk, briefly,

about nothing of consequence.

at others, with discreet superiority,

i talk about you.

i wonder why you're jobless

and have not married;

i watch your bent back as it dips to 

tend to the few plants in your terrace

before you wash the floor,

your shoulders set

somewhat righteously.

between our ancient neighbours 

and my young family,

there you are,

young-old, old-young,

holding on to custom and 

forgotten ways, 

odd, laughable,

amber.