Neighborhood Solitude

Solitude:

A man on his front porch staring at me,

and I’m staring at him, but he doesn’t know,

so he’s alone under that tarnished rooftop

hiding in his cheap, old blue sweater, the threads

as loose as the brown, dry spaghetti wriggling on my fork.

Yes, I’m shaking.

I’m shaking because I’ve seen that depressed frown before,

I’ve seen his chipped, blood-dried nails digging into the wood he holds on to

when he remembers there’s no one there to bid him good morning,

that no one cares how he’s feeling or asks what he dreamt about the night

before.

He’s 26.

Yes, he’s 26 and bearing the years of being mature and single;

no fiancé to help with dinner, so he’s baking , and you’d think that’s

a good quality in a man, but from what I can smell it’s suicide.

Never leave a man alone with the stove.

Oh, pity-

pity I feel, overwhelmed for him, a neighbor living amongst empty

houses; large, sturdy boulders protruding wildly but silently blindfolding

his view of the city, so colorful, pretty and playful, what he wants to be,

what he won’t have, what he moved into…literally.

“Hello neighbors,” I can hear him shout in a growing mental frenzy,

the movement of his lips unnoticeable to me. “Come over for tea at

6!” he shouts, growling instantly at the echo of his throat kissing

off the grass and lapsing in the summer breeze.

Poor man-

poor man indeed! He doesn’t move, but what does he expect?

No one will come to discuss the news and chug that foul beer over sports,

no one will listen to him talk about his hopes and worries, no one

will call to say they miss him.

He’s so alone, so frightfully alone.

What he doesn’t know-

oh, but he should- that grandfather clocking ticking away in his living room,

that time does pass, pains and patience are rewarded, and prayer

means Someone has heard, Someone will send, Someone watching through

my eyes, and all of a sudden I’m stone-parched and thirsty.

No more coffee in the cupboards and the clock strikes 6. I’m

heading to your patchy, green door, wearing though new, and you

open it slowly, unsure of what you see, me in my checkered coat,

fancy jeans, a smile on my face, your nose twitching in question.

“Hello, Nick. You invited me for tea,” I say kindly, watching your pupils

dilate as massive as your ears, and I laugh to bring the summer light

to your melancholy aura, thinking happily I’d broken your lonesome

silence and set you free, but you clench your teeth and say, “Wrong house,”

and slam the door in my face.

I realize then he’d forgotten his name, and

I’d forgotten to finish my spaghetti.