our neighbour’s elder mouth bells

at the door, announces his wife

he titled on the internet. her cheeks

of country virgin fresh

now have a leader, they meet

our assumed aura of spinsters.

his elevated expression swells out

more tongue about his other

salvation by newly heard online healers,

he adds they have tagged him

one of our town’s latest corrections.

we noise the part where his name

is floating their marquee with our duty

to inform our homing one of us upstairs

who is now in pathogenised demography.

we are eager to also offer our apologies for

having to miss his prayer before two cups of tea

to celebrate his third matrimony, but the end

of our pandemic sentence made long

by mother tongue converges on his wife’s

teenage speed with which she slings

her own lightness from his side

to the street. he mismatches her urgency

with polite charge towards her waiting

for him but in a hurry, her see-through kerchiefed

eyes passing through closed window parts

of our home’s body. we watch his Bible-

fattened pocket switching parts

to let his right hand crawl

back to grease her story.