for my neighbors

when one dog barks, they all do.
I hardly recognized my neighbor
in a mask, but she knew me
in line at the grocery store.
her name rhymes with mine.
she sits with a six pack
on the tilted bench
outside my apartment—
the same spot where
a young girl texts the person
she likes. I can tell she does
by the way she smiles
and looks around like some
one caught her stealing.
this is the same spot
where a woman rocks
an infant to the sound
of leaves singing in wind,
where everyone stuffs
ducks with bread, which
also make house visits
now, and apparently
they prefer full loaves
to breadcrumbs.
Bless what's left 
of this weather,
we all seem to agree
and stoop over our
porches in our pajamas.
 
 

Through the Roof

The tree outside my window
with its decaying crabapples,
jaundice yellow leaves, and
the garbage bag the roofers
left behind, claimed by the wind,
now streams from a branch.

A black cape without an owner,
it waves goodbye to summer
when there was a man in every
window. They wore shoes
made of thunder, and they
stormed us from all sides.

Drilling, hammering holes,
peeling pieces off our home.
The deconstruction, a slow,
agonizing exposure, took days.

I awoke to knocking, sideways
picture frames, couches covered
in debris rained from the skylights,
and man crashing through ceiling.