Lost Neighbour

   by David Chorlton

Alvin looked across the fence
when it was still standing straight
and he needed conversation
whether we wanted to hear
about his family in California or not.
One night he invited us to the stars

and pointed his telescope
at an eclipse of the moon
that resembled the tumour
growing on his cheek.
Then he walked away down the alley
and reappeared months later
on the bench outside the Basha’s store

in the company of others
whose teeth were as crooked as his.
I moved into an apartment
he said, as if it were a country
to which nieces send their uncles
when they have too many.
Weeks passed between
encounters. He shopped in different

aisles to us, picking cans
in preference to fresh
while his beard struggled to hide
what was happening to him
and the crack in his voice
couldn’t help but reveal it.
New Alvins sit in his place
having slowed to the pace

of remembering how it was here
when people spoke first
and introduced themselves later.