Omelet
We have another one,
since last week, in our neighborhood.
Three houses down. He sits
the way most of them do, by his garbage cans
and recycling bin;
sometimes by the side of his house
where the sprinkler hose is coiled for fall.
Old warm clothes, a blanket – even
a watch-cap, which looks strange
on his office-worker’s face.
You can tell it’s getting to him.
I saw him steal a drink from the hose
and look speculatively
at squirrels and another neighbor’s dog.
Now he’s weakened and gray. Rain is forecast;
the leaves come down on him and the yard
he doesn’t stray into.
The wife sold the second car (his);
comes home from work and doesn’t go out
and never meets his eye.
It must be hard, but they’re disciplined.
I give it another week.
Then someone – she, most likely – will make the call.
He did the right thing. It’s terrible when
it’s the wife, or a woman living alone.
They dress up, if you can imagine that –
jewels, if there’re any left –
or just a housedress and a robe.
They seldom last a week.
And some are … vocal, a strain
on everyone. When it’s kids,
it doesn’t bear thinking about.
It’s different, I’ve heard,
in other neighborhoods. They form gangs.
Run around like chickens without heads.
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