Apart

She stays apart from our little five
flats community along our drive.

The rest of us from our four flats
chat in passing at the letterboxes,
hanging washing on the lines along
our back path, leaving or arriving at
the carports, hanging washing there
on wet days , putting out or bringing
in our recycling bins.

But the woman apart stays separate,
unemployed, we see her occasionally
walking out to the footpath, returning
with supermarket bags, hanging out
or bringing in washing in the early
morning or late evening.

“Oh she never answers her door,”
laughed cheery chatty flat three.
Certainly she didn’t when I knocked
as her carport gutter overflowed.

One day I met her at the letterbox.
She put the junk mail in the recycling
bin, also her letters in long envelopes.
“Nope, I never read them,” she said.

I remembered doing the label for
her recycling bin’s microchipping.
I remembered she knew nothing
of our broadband fibre installation
until I told her a week later at
one of our rare encounters.

I thought of our family’s dyslexic
eight year old, her tricks to avoid
reading, how hard she worked at school.

I think our woman apart
finds it hard to read.

Apart