“a mysterious neighbor in a free verse”

He moves in through the night,  
carrying silence like a briefcase,  
clicking shut the doors behind him.  
His windows are dark wells—  
once, a shadow flickers against thin curtains,  
a hand, perhaps, weaving  
untranslatable semaphore.

No packages arrive for him.  
No greetings, not even a nod  
while we collect our mail side by side.  
The wild geraniums on his steps never bloom;  
they sit, leaves tightly furled,  
waiting for a word  
that never comes.

Sometimes, laughter leaks  
from the narrow grate near his cellar—  
not loud or bright, but the sound  
of half-remembered stories, low and hazy,  
spoken to someone  
only he can see.

Children make legends  
on the sidewalk—  
he’s a painter, or a violinist,  
or else he tames nocturnal birds  
with bits of silver and bread.  
Once, Jennie swore  
she heard him whistling  
an old waltz, the tune spinning  
between the hedges.

His lawn is always trimmed,  
not a blade out of place,  
but the roses refuse to root,  
and the fence leans  
as if listening.

I imagine rooms lined in books—  
his laughter  
soft as the turning of pages,  
his name folded  
into a language  
none of us speak.

When the moon hangs  
in his highest window,  
I wonder:  
who watches,  
and who dreams,  
and which of us lingers  
longest  
in the space between  
knowing  
and not?

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