from my roof i spied.

A stalling engine,

pudgy fingers that

paw through the glove box

for another cigarette.

His keys hang limp,

one still in the ignition.

The prowling strays are

on neighborhood patrol; 

their razor-sharp claws knock over

the Jameson’s trash can

tripping the motion lights. 

They spit and scatter

as a lamp by the second

floor window flicks on.

I heed the sound of a rattling cart,

the familiar squeak of the hinge on

my rusty garden gate.

A hunched figure struggles

to keep the bottles from spilling over the sides.

She makes her way over to our bins,

trampling peonies.

She does not seem to notice,

sifting through the contents

to find the seven bottled teas

I drank this week

(the ones with the labels

I could never pronounce).

I remain shrouded in darkness,

perched on battered shingles.

Her creaky wheels hasten to the next house two

doors down.

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