The couple next door—
you can hear their lives rusting.
voices dulled down
to habit and sighs.
every morning 7 a.m.
the same shuffle to the car
same half-dead engine cough
they pull out,
off to jobs they hate
in clothes they hate
for people they hate.
every night
same small sad light in the kitchen window,
two silhouettes,
one stirring a pot,
one slumped in a chair.
tv on by 7,
off by 10,
bed by 10:15,
no sounds from that room—
not for years.
you can feel it through the wall,
the sag of it all,
the clock-punch life,
waiting to be done with.
no need to watch—
I know the ending.
Reply With Quote
