mashed potatoes

his accent,
not crisp and at attention
like most i've heard,
like soldiers in hard pressed uniforms,
marching to a perfect staccato beat.
his is different.
words roll off his tongue
like mashed potatoes,
each bite filled
with salt and pepper.
i rather like it.
he is ever fidgeting,
bouncing from one foot
to another,
you might think he has somewhere
else he needs to be,
the way he pulses,
the way he darts and
shifts like a machine
but he gives me his attention and
sincere eyes.
I apologize for my own
idiosyncrasies,
the way sounds fly from my
mouth, unable to put
my attempt to communicate to
official words.
sounds just seem to work better
sometimes.
i am given blank stares by most,
they don't know how to compute,
how to respond to my
ridiculous sound effects.
I assumed he would be the same,
being an Oxford intellectual and all.
But he easily shares a smile,
many actually,
and in his gentle way,
assures me,
"i rather like it.
i understand exactly
what you're saying."