I hear the neighbor’s t.v.,
one house over and a block up,
the other side of an empty lot
so nothing blocks the sound.
A peeling house I like to peer into
but wouldn’t want to live in.
High above the ground,
as lake houses used to be,
in the summer its windows
swing open without screens.
It seems like an alcoholic’s house
shadowed in neglect,
never any signs of yard work,
the only productivity a covey of antique cars,
gathered under tarps and discount store canopies.
I rarely see the man who lives there,
but summer mornings I always hear the t.v.
In the winter I see the car canopy
behind the half-built fence
and choose to think of it as
a country barn.