Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nineteen Spring 2009 |
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 |