Morning watch

The washing hangs high on the slit roofs,
clean  linen smells of faint roses and sunflowers
packed into label boxes, the faces of here mark economic size smiles,
blistering with candy, left done enough at the corner shops,
flailing the socks, the little wind messes out with
the jackets, the t-shirts. Lace doesn't hang outside
things that are set for the indoors, stay indoors
shut behind a wooden drawer

like my habits of uniformity in color,
a schoolchild morphed into womanhood
by short white socks, high pony-tales and basic black underwear
minimalist, there's no use in elaboration,
I enter the speech of women like a whisper
too low, I keep it mine
too high, it becomes a scream

I hear the sounds of my balcony,
like soft moans and whimpers
there isn't much unusual activity
the trees are parked in their own space,  the wind doesn't question
its blows-
there harsher wind doesn't move the dogs into the other side of the street
you teach me how to treat order
as graceful as a bean sprouting
there are sounds of gossip and exchange of jam fruits in theory
the balcony's stranger hides no moss

on a book corner under the sun

the ladies wrap their muffed conversation with linen

some pillowcase over the shabbier clothes, making of the rooftops
a forest of foliage, a taste of color
in a while the ladies bite words, 

Smuggle the washing into round baskets 
and disappear indoors 

on my balcony, I sit 

I am knitting you a sweater, unaware
you are looking outside
like it had rained here, like it will rain again
like cracking one egg ruins the set-
you eye the ladies and me
I stitch onward a pit on the green design
I don't receive jam recipes
unless it rains, the fruit can wait