Wee rabin

Bird hops about then throws itself over the fence into next doors. “Dezzie, Dezzie, wee rabin” says her. That’s nice, I think, minding my own lettuce. Sometimes it’s not all god’s own garden over the way though. Every few weeks The Racket will go off and go on for three or four days. Vile things are flung, things that people should never say to each other. Relentless, The Racket. Doesnt let up. Doors smash, whore’s are named, desperate things are vowed to. I want to go around and knock their front door and remind them that one day we’ll all be dead. But sure what would be the point whilst they’re locked in the mortal combat of a marriage. They do the garden together on the Sundays that arent inclement, he works nights there’s never been any children. She doesn’t drive. They giggle away he finds her funny. I like that bit. Big man guffaws. She chuckles with satisfaction and pretends not to know her own wit. Rackets to Rabins. The things people do to each other.