I only knew him by the sounds of scraping slippers on trash days, early
to to the curb, always before mine; first at everything.
In late afternoons, when my head hurt from the relentless "boing" of my phone, reminding me of another email I will hate myself for opening at 3:00 am, he would be sweeping his driveway. This old broom, worn down to the stitching, mused by his slippers, synced itself to me. A concert in minutiae before I went inside.
Yesterday his door was open for hours. I only pretended to knock on it. The smell of wet wood and urine did not sound like anything. It was more of a silent purple or blue faced hanging in a kitchen. I sat in one of his hand made chairs that I felt comfortable in, becoming furious. I stole his slippers and his broom before I called the police. It was trash day tomorrow.