Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Friends and Neighbors
Walking out your front door every morning, I shake off a night’s worth of stiffness and wave to a blank stare across the wounded asphalt divide. He’s a witness, a bystander; he knows too much to be left alive, too much about screams in the night, cries of ecstasy and rage and misunderstanding. He recognizes the criminal heart inside me—he says nothing, never waves back. You once told me he’s nice enough, two cars, three daughters bona-fide, widowed not a decade before; said he asked you when it would be his turn for a sunrise in your window. He wants to breeze in, to fight and growl a little, get the blood flowing enough to know if it’s pure love. After, he’ll try to drink everyone in town under the table, go to work, smack his boss silly, give himself a raise, tell the dogs all day long at the water hole what its like to walk out your door, though he’ll never know any of the right details: how you name stars in the night for your ex’s and track their auras through the seasons, how you wake up in stages—a storm battered vessel limping into harbor. But sadly, there is one detail he will never know: exactly how small of a space that I take while lying on your bedroom floor.