The first sound from the south
came out all wrong —
too sharp, too directional,
as if it had borrowed
the northern script.
Up north, a reply arrived
with far too much depth,
clearly meant for the south,
but trying to pass itself off
as something cultured.
The serviette, affronted,
rose like a modest shield.
“Not my job to cover that,”
it muttered in a crisp fold,
yet held its post anyway,
fluttering with judgment.
Under the table,
the cloth felt the sudden fanning.
“Oh no, not again,” it sighed,
ruffling along its hem.
“You make the mess,
I take the blame —
typical.”
The tooter hid behind the serviette,
pretending to study the ceiling.
The burper sat statue‑still,
hand working overtime
in the linen shadows.
Chairs paused.
Cutlery hovered.
The house, long‑suffering,
let the linens argue it out,
as if this north–south confusion
were just another Tuesday.
By dessert, the serviette
had regained its dignity,
the tablecloth had forgiven nothing,
and both culprits sat upright,
each convinced the other
had caused the weather shift,
while the linens whispered
about boundaries and workload
for the rest of the night.
.