Relocation

The mood is insanely tense.

I’m making a sandwich
and I swat at the air,
as if in gesture to myself
that I could cut the feeling of this place
with a bread knife.

An ultimatum will be voiced, I’m sure.

I can hear the conversation.
The volume hasn’t reached an alarming high,
but from the sounds of what she’s saying,
the word “antipathy” comes to mind.

It seems that
Operation Relocate the Foreigners
has come to a standstill.
And no one is willing to make the first move.

I feel like I’m in an old-time Western
with all the corny suspense
of a Wild West Showdown.

I’m waiting for someone to pull out a six-shooter,
cock the pistol in their hands,
and tip their hat.
The saloon doors will swing
as news of the potential clash
reaches the bars across town.
The village will gather on the other side of the corral
and think they’re going unnoticed.

Instead, I put the mustard back in the fridge
and make my way downstairs,
sandwich in hand,
where the air screams
with suppressed angst and
the faint whiff of the R word –
Relocation.

The wind outside begins to blow.

Something inside is about to blow
too.

The decibel of the tête-à-tête now
is enough to rival a bulldozer.

The talks go on for a while.
Though the word “talks” is
slightly too tame for this style
of discussion.

The climax of the mêlée
has arrived
and with it an array
of sour insults
and cliché remarks
about giving
without expecting something
in return.

After a while,
the battle ceases
and the troops retreat
to their respective domains,
that is,
one to the kitchen
and the other
to the craft room.

Beads are shuffled furiously
and pots begin to bang about upstairs.

Time to ask for a summary.

I listen.
I nod.
I hmm
I ahh.

And I see the verdict,
the conclusion,
the finale.

One word.

Relocation.