The Nieghborhood

Yellow plastic caught
in the pricks
of uppermost branches,
a neighbor’s tree,
a walmart bag wretches free
and tumbles across a neighbor’s yard.

No need to spit;
the small sagging cottages
and cracked sidewalks
bear no real harm.
Coffee stains the hairs above
his upper lip. For years.
He’s fixing a door lock.
Jiggles the handle.
Owns most of these squares.

It’s the frame, the frame,
that’s broke. Nickel
plywood splintered and scratched.
A foot
can put the end to that.
Move off with a television,
stereo, cheap perfume.

His mouth moves
and words come out, yet
she finds the hum below the pane
far too distracting–
machinery. On the street.
Telling.

The door closes, locks latch;
she hears he owns a kennel too.