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An overhead neighbour’s up late running
a bubble bath or maybe pouring
booze away. Only the wet acoustics
to go on. I couldn’t even
describe their face, have never held
the lift door in the foyer open, crossing paths
coming back from errands or the library.
Lucky I had a plastic bag to hand
today, or this book would be ruined,
pages all fused into rain mulch.
The dust jacket swears it’s a vital guide,
but how’m I meant to focus on my growth
if constantly diverted by a mystery slosh.
The general flow, fine, I’m missing the particulars.
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