2016/gardener

Almost daily there is a gardener,
or resident gardener,
blower or weed whacker in hand
circling the perimeter of the yard.
I hear them first thing in the morning.
On Monday at the well-clipped cottage
across the street with the calm tree.
Fridays, two doors down the Hispanic
man blows droppings from the front
of his house to the neighbor
who comes out erratically
when I’m least in the mood,
his every movement
a passive aggressive act of hostility
against my hedges and blooming roses,
which he resents for being alive.
Now and then across the street
I see Sean’s pony tail as he mows
his weed-filled yard,
our only friendly neighbor,
whose cats we feed
when they are gone.

3/11/16