He sits on
the log,
in the clearing
beneath the oaks.
By the trail
where people
walk past,
or bike, or
ride their
The same spot
where the old
drunk sat
in his green metal
lawn chair
I coveted,
until he finally
I avert my
eyes when
I drive past.
But know he’s
there with his
five dogs,
reading the paper
he gets from
my neighbor
each morning.
I hear them
talking through
my bathroom
window, he tells
her how things
are, what’s going
on, a place
where he gets
to practice his
He tried it
with me
a few times,
and found me
to his opinion,
and gift for
I know he needs
a forum, that
those of us with
homes and jobs and
families have.
But I don’t like
having my boundaries
broken, with comments
like, “I see you’ve
been out of town.”
He curses loudly
at his dogs when
he walks past,
to prove he’s not
the lowest,
with names
I’ll not repeat.
And cackles a
loud uncomfortable
The winter he
lived in the car
down the street,
I never saw him
near it,
though I see him
more than any other
and question my
life each time
I do.