Mr Harper is Richard to Paul,
and the nice man to me.
The nice deaf man,
who let me into the building
one April afternoon when
my arms were busy juggling
fresh raspberries, greek yoghurt
and apricot cake.
Mr Harper has not heard the doorbell
in years, but he has his own teeth
and a tape deck. Soon you will go downstairs
where Richard is all smiles, ready with an open door
and ‘Paul! It’s good to see you’. While you play
the saltwater music I sent, Mr Harper will sit
in his comfy chair and sketch saltwater lakes,
somewhere near Salalah.
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