The folks across our cul-de-sac, whom

I’ve never shaken hands with nor waved

hello to, clean windows even Sundays.

They scoop their sidewalks twice every

snow, each winter scrape the concrete

to puddingstone, and in spring, plant

flowers that loom or tower by their bay

window—clematis, cosmos in militant

rows.  Afternoons, and mornings after,

they’ll shake out a pink welcome mat

in unctuous veronicas, tease a flaming

azalea with pinking shears, personably

mow grass blades, then, with Scotts Plus,

gentrify the works, their silver maple

standing by, aloof, limbs arched in Vs.

All will glisten, winking at hopskotching

passersby, who neither nod, nor wink

back, nor see his-and-her gray squirrels,

or the topiary poodle’s pompomed tail.

Still, I’ll descry my neighbors’ decorous

industry through my pulled blind.  I’ll sit

or recline, in the burgher green house

across the way, bemused by their frank

husbandry, dressed down in my spats,

white spandex tux, and paper epaulets,

my loosestrife reddening, not thinking

about doing anything, really, like wok-

ing game hens, blueing .22s with Easter

dye, or training chefs in arts of fluting

pastry, and origami, for demesne cards,

or of airbrushing new loving cups, sans

chamois, and not thinking of shuffling

nesting dolls in divisible troops, or lost

games of Authors, or parting my best

frowzy beard, using a bullhorn.  Rather,

I’ll while away days tossing coins, either

end, ambiguity or anonymity, as green

paint flakes, drifts thoughtless as sighs,

every odd nail crowing rustily, just as

every other nail passes irony, cunningly,

until the green house lists into acute

disarray, fallaciously turning outside-in—

more or less inconspicuously, about like

reruns on public TV.  What might the folks

across the way, to whom I’ve never lent

an egg, borrowed cups of tea from, do

should they glance up, across the way,

twin Weed Whackers in tow, in one split

instant of ease, grace, or just respite,

at least—fastidious hands at rest, at last?