Pardon me boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?

my sanctuary roof
rumbles
with the drums of
smaller feet
not cherubic,
no
neither a metaphor
in Paradise
my upstairs neighbour
made decisions
which

might not be all bad
were it not for Mr. Fuckstick
i’ve knocked on his door
and looked into his eyes
his dull
un-apprehensive eyes and i
do not envy him
his devices

thirty-something
puttin’ it to a young
girl
that can’t be twenty yet
or,
she is
and just young-looking
for her age

i remember being twenty-something
dating a lithe double zero
full of want
and directionless aplomb

now at thirty
four
i’m already too old
for social butterfly adventures
and,

they must have given him
building blocks or Lego’s
for the noise he makes
little King
smashing castles
across the kitchen linoleum

i remember Fuckstick when he first
moved in
such a depressing sight

he sat
without furniture
in his empty living space
sat
without curtains or a telephone

sat
for weeks
wrapped in melancholy
and what looked like
a Strawberry Shortcake comforter

now
he’s replaced his old teal rust-rocket
with a four door maroon Pontiac
moved the lil’ Missus in
and i could give two shits
however

i do like to sit with a glass
of wine and my Glenn Miller vinyl
at suppertime
preferably
without the ruckus

stomping at me to turn it down
i would, if he’d ask
but i doubt very much
that he put his Poke and her Baggage
on the lease

so, to Hell with that mouthy bitch
i think i’ll turn it up

this helps. this feels like
therapy

… ahh

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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