Stan was   in the dining room looking for an aged briefcase  with his autobiography in it while Emile sat on an old TV set in the window.looking at birds.Mary was in the garden  wearing an ancient  yet trendy  denim dress planting some trailing rosemary,lavender and sage in a small bed near the French window..She had decided that her salvation lay in the soil though what form it would take was not yet clear ;suddenly she heard a harsh cry.It was her neighbor telling off his dog,Emmanuel.Come,now ,he shouted.

Hail,Mary,he called.Can you spare a  big  potato?

Probably,she muttered peevishly without looking up.

I am making sausage boulangere, he  informed her.But I  use turkey sausages as I am a Jewish Hindu.semi vegetarian.

i am not interested in religion,she told him kindly.I believe one can worship God ,if there is  one, somewhere like a wood.

I like being on a group ,he told…

The proud man feels a deep disdain
For those whose life has not seen gain
He feels he’s made his own great pile
From his own talent   and his guile

Yet vulnerable to ills and pains
Are all humans and their gains.
No-one is in full control
Of themself or earth or  soul.

And why despise a humble man
Who works as hard as any can?
In a  coal mine or  the docks
Tending goats and sheep in flocks.

Remember Job and how he fell?
None’s immune  though he feel well.
At least  treat  all with  some respect
Even those in tatters decked.