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yard work

The man who lives
in the house behind us
is working outside
in his yard again today
just beyond this
quiet bedroom window
where I sit writing–
no–
fidgeting at my desk,
struggling to put
elusive thoughts on paper,
my mind often
humming along to the
loud, familiar strains
of a cutting, drilling,
sanding, welding,
sawing, pounding tune.

Two days a week he is
there from sun-up till supper,
fixing, fussing, fretting, cussing,
faithful as the turning of the tides.

I don’t know his name,
nor does he mine,
though we say hello
every now and then.
I don’t know his
favorite TV shows
or what kind of
music he likes best.
He doesn’t know
my favorite color,
nor that going to
Ireland is my dream;
yet oddly, I sometimes
feel more intimate
with him than
with my own husband.
At least my neighbor
and I share this
time together week after week —
—whether he knows it or not.