The House Next Door

little ever changed
at the house next door:

every morning an old woman
would hang fresh loads of laundry
out to dry

sometimes in the afternoon
a young woman in a blue bandanna
would sit on the patio and read a book

sublime in her solitude

lips sealed
beneath her slight smile,
a secret


every evening an old man
can of beer in hand
would sit outside and smoke

things are different now...

outside:
the afternoon air hangs heavily
as clothespins pinch an empty line

A scorching sun
pierces the parched plastic
of a decrepit patio set

rusty tools and broken pots
bake blood stained shadows into the burnt grass

the backyard, a graveyard
of forgotten projects

inside:
the windows are open
the curtains are drawn
the phone rings
the doorbell rings
no one answers

the old woman does not come outside anymore
because the young woman in the blue bandanna
will never go outside
again

the old man
still sits outside
still drinks his beer
still smokes his cigarettes
as he smokes he stares at his backyard graveyard
it means something different now