10.19.2008

From one Dick to another.

His name is Richard.
He's about sixty, though he could pass for
seventy-five, a retired local cop who looks, walks
and sounds like some sort of balding scarecrow.

From where I sit in my bedroom
I can see into his kitchen window.
He's drying a plate with a white towel right now
and as frail as the man is, every motion he makes
during every task I watch him perform
from the safety of my voyeuristic perch
is done with such deliberate fervor
as if to stake claim to something
that could be lost if he isn't careful.
Sometimes I want to remind him
that if it hasn't left him yet
it probably never will
but we'll never speak
since we have no reason to.

I'd wager money that you could find
a lint-covered piece of butterscotch candy
in the right hip pocket of his brown slacks
and in his left would be a receipt from the oil change
he got today for that car that's older than me
which it seems he constantly makes excuses
to drive around town as if he bought it yesterday.

His back yard is filled with other vehicles, sheds
and unfinished projects long since rusted beyond repair.
Toys his grandchildren left out fill the gaps in between.
His family visits him daily and I see his peppered moustache
dance above his flannel shirt as he waves goodbye
in his driveway every evening as if he won't see them tomorrow.
He knows he might not.

Tonight I see you, Richard
and commend you for a life well-lived
though I don't know your last name
or whether or not you've ever cheated on your wife
or your taxes.
None of that matters to me anyhow.
That Frankenstein fence you rigged years ago
has made us good neighbors.
But honestly, why is the light always on
in your basement?



Currently reading:
"The Stranger" by Albert Camus.

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