The rosy she-oak table gleams, laden
with bowls of steamy stew,
a bottle of red and four glasses.
The glissando of our voices.
She tells the story of her garbage bin.
The stink which turns out to be a rat,
which gnawed open a crack and got stuck,
half in, half out. Dead, but she couldn’t budge it.
Reminded me of her vindictive neighbour.
The wine-soaked cackle of camaraderie: Go ahead, sneak into his yard tonight and trade the bins.
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