There’s nothing to say —
they don’t speak much,
at least not to me.
There are no Italian whispers
or Mescalero shouts
in my ears.

But I imagine
they talk a lot
to each other
behind my back,
gossiping at my indiscretions,

my betrayals
of their own long-vanished worlds
that are usually based in trying
to live up to one set of expectations
at the expense of the other.

I imagine grumpy men
with dark faces
staring at each other
and passing
tiswin and good red wine
back and forth. 

Bunch of drunks!

The best thing to do with gossip
is ignore it
and get on with your own life:

one proverb everyone shares
and no one follows.

To hell with that!