Wednesday, January 22, 2003

She who lives next door

She who lives next door
is a sourfaced old crone
she lives out of cardboard boxes
and, but for a cat, alone. 
She is thick around the pelvis;
she never entertains;
she’s possessive of the parking:
she’s a doctor, she’s got brains
but I never see her smile
as sunshine fills the street,
stomping downstairs in her housecoat
on terry-slippered feet.
(We get along just fine
for I park with extra care -
encroach not on her driveway,
leave her egress unimpaired.)
Our garbage day was Monday.
I took the dog outside,
crossed over to the greenbelt,
and, while he peed, I spied
my crotchety old neighbor,
garage door lifting high;
she pulled her garbage to the curb
and looked me in the eye.
She knew that I saw her
as my doggie moved his bowel;
she wore a ratty sweatshirt,
huge pink panties and a scowl.
I cleaned up as was needed;
she stood there with a frown,
her pale thighs uncovered
as she tugged her sweatshirt down.
Her puffy face defiant,
she turned to go back in -
the worn and baggy cotton
masking her vertical grin.
The garbage men removed the trash
as promptly as before,
but my eyes remain polluted
by the crone who lives next door.