My language is not your language

by Rebecca Hughes

Your language is not my language
I break in always a little too soon, and you come to the point so late
I make an appointment for thirty o’clock and we shake on it
I’ll be there and you’ll be there – right?
We point, gesture some more, laugh, and part

His language is not their language
The wind takes his words way up over the wires and his accent is
                hopping about like a bird
The labourers he is briefing are from Glasgow, Shanghai and Lodz,
The lines will be life from 3 to 3 10, OK?
He mimes electrocution and sudden death, and they all cheer, funny guy

My language is not your language, whatever you say
Our friendships grow not in accurate understandings
But in the tongue’s slips, missed timings, mimes, trips,
And really liking that guy who never came back.