From where I sit in my office
door closed
trying to write,
the dishwasher sounds like
a hushed conversation.
I try to discern the discourse.
Maybe it could become dialogue
in my latest story.
But it remains vague.
As frustrating as eavesdropping
on my grandparents,
trying to gain inside information regarding
gifts and other secrets,
but their low voices
coupled with the German they spoke,
kept me properly completely mystified.
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