Like most writers I did not write

I just sat in front of an old wooden desk

My neighbour was called Flamingo

Her mother was from Brazil

She had no father that I knew about

My apartment overlooked her apartment

I watched her life away from the city

Although we were both part of the crazy city

Her mother was if anything more beautiful

Than her almost perfect daughter

They seemed to be talking constantly

Gestures faded into gestures words into words