The man down the hall
watches me leave every morning.
I catch him staring at me.
I smile and wave, he throws rocks
through his own windows;
I would like to avoid him today.
I do like it when he grows
flowers in spring - seems to
smile more those days.
His pill boxes overflow in Zinnia,
reminds me of a wedding.
In winter we shovel salt.
He is subdued by the heavy air.
Thick mustaches and beards
make for small talk - chit chat.
This summer has been crazy hot,
filled with people scampering about
like ants under glass - like
the hum of Cicada in the trees;
voices in manic phase.
Those evenings he paces in circles,
screaming at me with his ice black eyes,
electrically peering through me,
in me, from me.
I slap my face with water,
bite my arms and pull glass from my forehead
because it's summer in my bathroom mirror.
I don't think I can take
the medication tonight;
I'm trying not to stare at him.