Tag: neighbors

Where I Do Not Know


I heard their hooves on the street where my parents live.
I heard it inside a corner of my dream and before
I even knew I was awake and climbing off the
Futon mattress and squinting night eyes through the
Blinds. And the parade of does and their
Fawn proceeded up the street as if they were
On a way to who knows maybe Lincoln Road then
Down the hill for an early start gambling
On the riverboat. I was their only
Company, me and the neighbor’s misdirected
Motion-sensing garage light that shouldn’t
Switch on just for passing traffic.

I’d been here before. Not with misplaced
Deer on my parents’ doorstep, but hearing
Footsteps on a road. Early enough before
Black cabs got to running over speed humps,
I heard metal on stone coming on and
Stumbled in the grey to spy the pair of
Equestrians chatting easily as they
Cantered down the London road at
5:30 a.m. It was summer: it must be summer
Because no snow in any direction
Muffled their hooves, and the weight of
The dreams in both cases made me
Unsure of what I’d seen. Made me
Pack the animals and their passing
By into memory recall carefully for
Reuse.

Now I stand on any partially lit
Street differently, in a doorway
Eyeballing any Toyota go by or
Pale neighbor pass and feel an
Anxious sweetening in the way I want to see:
Hooves on cobbles, night feet on
Pavement, and us all animal shadows like questions
Come along;
Deer or love, from
A place I can’t explain and
Heading
Where I do not know.

Eavesdropping.


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.

On the Verge


We are all on the verge
Of something. Like the serene
Beagle standing so still at the
End of his leash, yet shivering
For the ripe time to snatch
That little boy’s dangling sandwich.

We are on the verge of
Swatting the unexpected
Gnat, smashing quick out the
Light of some soul ambling
By just to enjoy our hyacinth
Perfume.

We are all on the verge of tossing
Up our hands and saying
What is the use of these
Shackles I’m dragging, except to
Warn you all I am coming?

We are all on the verge of
Goodbye. We are all on the
Verge of falling
Into the next quicksand. We are
All. All. On the
Edge, the verge, the
Precipice looking down and
Not seeing anything at all,
Not even noticing each other’s
Warm life hanging in the icy air.

We are all on the verge
Together and
Together we are
Ready to jump.

Look Out


Root - Things seen and not seen - E. Howard on Hipstamatic

It’s nice, isn’t it? The way we all can just look
Out the window and see the
Same things everyday, like that
Same poop-filled plastic bag.
Someone scooped up with

His own hand, closed it gently,
With a sweet bow,
Carefully tying it shut. Then PLOP,
Dropped it there on the

Town grass where he can
Walk by, daily, with the dog,
To visit it, and
As it’s turning winter, enjoy
Its temporary disappearance. Until

An observant robin sings
Its triumphant return– it peeps slowly
From its snow cocoon,
Sighing into the warming sun. But,

It forgets itself in the
Luxuriant grasses of summer,
A little bit bored now,
A bit steamed that its dog

Doesn’t even sniff as it goes by now, and
No one bothers to remark on it as they
Pass, and even I forget, till early I hear mowers
And look out:

My old friend is torn to shreds.

This post is part of a month-long series of #smallstone found here and on the web. Thanks to Fiona Robyn and Kaspalita from Writing Our Way Home for supporting a wonderful writing community.