Every morning as I sit nestled
in the corner of the deck,
writing on the arm of the Adirondack,
the lady down the street
walks by with her dogs.
Obviously, she ‘s slimmer than I am.
Otherwise, I try to guess her rage.
She’s a bleached blonde,
which makes it hard.
Some days I think she’s older,
other days not.
Her style too makes it a challenge.
When she first moved here
she wore sequined jackets,
left over from the ’80s,
that went with her clean, used Jag.
I don’t know how she keeps the Jag clean,
living here. I see her washing it herself.
She owns a shop nearby they say.
She also owns a lawn jockey that
stands in the corner of her tiny porch.
I thought he was white but you corrected me.
And though her lawn is what her landlady calls
postage stamp size,
she keeps bringing in new plants.
I like to see it but felt discouraged at first
to see the ease with which she settled in,
at a time when my own life was in chaos.
These things happen I know,
I’ve been on the other end of it, I’m sure.
But I can’t now remember when.