lean times

a neighborhood poem

Most nights while the dog is sniffing every inch of the sidewalk (scrolling her feed, I call it), I amuse myself with the neighborhood vignettes unfolding around us like so many short films. This week chelsea bird inspired me to write down some of the stories I tell myself about this cast of characters. This little poem is one of those.

//

when she talks she sways, and he leans
with practiced confidence against a motorbike
that isn’t his

crosses his arms and leans back to let the curls fall
from his face. leans back to laugh
and I’m sorry for him -

he missed it

again, as the night before. he was looking up, leaning
away when she smiled wild and bright
as the cheshire cat moon

a smile to pull his heart from its axis
and it would, I’m certain, if just once he’d lean
forward, instead of back.