We are always eavesdropping.

The boy in the next yard admits
He forgot to do his work, and the ladies who
Race by walking exchange their bodily failures
Like measurements of sifted flour.

I hear you, little bird hiding in the Yew.
You’ve complained about the
Weather before, damn day chilled
Too quickly after a tease of hot sun.

Sounds hang damp with the long rain.

A song lifts off the bubbles and the
Grease, across my hidden neighbor’s
Drive. I hear her, simultaneously
Washing time away, and clinging on.

We are always eavesdropping.