Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Nineteen
Spring 2009
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The Neighbor
Bruce Cohen

I have never been awake
When my neighbor is not
Tinkering in his yard.
Meticulously he mows
His lawn every day
In summer. I see him
At night on his knees
In the dewy grass
With a four inch ruler
Measuring each blade.
I greet him at dawn—
His eyes puffy,
Grass stains permanent
On his permanent press
Knees. He must throw
His trousers away.
The snow in winter
Is perfectly albino; he
Catches flakes with cupped
Hands as they descend
So a metal shovel never
Touches his pristine asphalt
Driveway. Each autumn
He is nearly insane. Leaves
Swirling in the chaotic wind
Are the epitome of impossibility.
He sits on his front porch
In despair, praying
For trees to become bare.
Only then, frantically,
He rakes, rakes
Until the ground is raw
Then sets the collapsing pyramids
On fire, but the molecular
Odor of smoke never returns
To the original leaves.
By spring his family,
Though he seems to live alone,
Is carried out in body bags.
The police gather in small
Circles, matting the front lawn.
A cigarette butt half-stamped
Out, smoldering in the driveway.
Speculation and interviews
Germinate then bloom like
Crocus in a surprise snow.

About Bruce Cohen

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