Neighbor Observations

Throwing a faded tie-dye foam football across

a rusted fence, intertwined with overgrown and untamed summer-city foliage.

Everyone's cutting their grass after work at

golden hour.

The kids next door throw rocks, and I sip my warm beer as

shaky, rattling cars drive past.

The neighbor's dog is in heat and the neighbor girl fingers grass blades with

fleeting attention.

There's an old man on his front porch drinking a

blood-red beverage full of beets, vinegar, and turmeric,

and an American flag is twisting, wrapping itself around the post.

Across the street girls with colorful hair and sweatpants smoke cigarettes, mumbling.


Never silence, never dull, the sound of another can of beer opening…


I am still, I stay silent.

Observing all the subtleties of movement and sound, bathed in a

blinding evening light.

I notice the complexities of existing so close to other humans.

These people I don’t know,

they don’t know me,

but we breathe, think, sleep, and dream 100 feet apart.


Yet there's a fence, there’s a wall,

there’s somewhere else to look other than into each other's face.

The distance that brings comfort, security,

but creates isolation, disconnection, loneliness.