Welcome Wagon

New Neighbor

One day you will ask to borrow my bow saw

to improve the view from your bedroom bow

or remove the forsythia that lurks

metastasizing in the corner of

the yard and I’ll ask to use your ladder

to reach the confluence of gutters

sprouting seedlings forty feet above the

ground, eye level with that patch of shingles

curling in the pitched valley of your roof

that slopes toward your gently canted driveway

where we’ll stand on warm Saturday mornings,

cold Tuesday afternoons leaning on rakes,

hefting blunted snow shovels, remarking

on the oddball weather or the guy across

the street or whether the Lions have a

snowballs chance, gazing off toward my rundown

shed, both of us silently sizing up

the others lawn, car, wife, mute witnesses

to softening bellies and hair gone sparse

as dune grass, the niggling matter of the

property line long forgotten along

with half-hearted hail-hardies and sheepish

Sunday morning appearances briefed and

bleary fishing for the paper on the

front porch, yours a low pleasant portico

where I stand in admiration of my

rhododendron, bow saw clutched to my chest,

eager to welcome you to your new home.