Inertia

Neighbor, I'm sorry, I don't know your name,
but, I'm sorry, hello, I see you wheel your trash to the curb
on Thursday evenings and it's been, what, five years now since
you moved in? Hello. You drive out of your
driveway on weekday mornings, to go to work, I assume,
and driveways aren't that interesting anyway. Ha!

But I do notice things about you. Forgive my intrusiveness-
No, it's not "intrusiveness." I misspoke!
I assure you, um, Neighbor, it is nothing more
than an old-fashioned neighborly inquisitiveness
that brings me to you this lovely Saturday afternoon.
Look! An excellent thing about us, neighbors, is,
we honor private property rights, don't we?
Notice the way I stand on the asphalt.
Notice my feet well planted on public property.
Another thing my neighborly, non-threatening inquisition
has brought to my attention:
In five years I've never seen anyone sit
on the quaint-looking bench in your front yard.
I know what you're trying to say.

And I want to point out something
with which you're obviously familiar,
supposing, of course, you have at least once,
in the five years and two months and three weeks
and fifteen days we've lived apart on this street,
cast your eyes toward my house.
I do not have a bench in my yard.
If you had ever been to my doorway, you would also
be familiar with the fact that
I have a faded, illegible welcome mat.

What's your name? Goodbye. Where are you from?
Good. What are your hobbies?
Neat. I don't like those things,
but I like that you like those things.
Goodbye. I have a beard. Goodbye.