My road quirks and climbs, its trees, one heavy at the hips, split
in the middle. A neighbor’s home painted green and plum,
like a bruise.
Peaches opens the door
to let the dog out
but never leaves the house
I met a neighbor drinking coffee in a café—a child-woman,
palm-sized, patchouli-reeking, weighted with beads. We talked
about the famous artist who lived in our hamlet. She told me
she loved me. I loved her, too.
(For that moment, anyway.)
When she died in a fire
my room filled with smoke
I can’t recall her face
From behind the curtain of his window, a neighbor stared.
I’d bustle about my kitchen, sip coffee. Once, I pretended to talk
on the phone for an hour, just to see how long he’d watch.
I noticed him peering
and placed my palms
against the pane
The realtor brought us inside a small home where a man
lived alone. In one corner of the living room sat his drum set—
no art on the walls, no rugs or plants.
Above the stove stuck
to the hood a post-it note:
Learn to love someone
