A Lovely Day in the Neighborhood
I’m telling one of my neighbors about
my latest worry. That someday someone
will move next door to me and be one
of those guys who like to overdecorate
their homes for Christmas. You know,
I tell him, with the plastic Santa Claus
and the Styrofoam snowmen—a whole
family of them—and reindeer, on the roof
probably, and lights, lots of lights,
green lights, blue lights, orange lights,
yellow lights, all flashing, and music,
loud music, piped from the house, day and
night, you know, all the favorites—
I saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus, the chipmunks,
Bing Crosby—and the sightseers in their
vans and pickups, gawking, stopping, blocking
my driveway, leaving garbage.
I stop to catch my breath and my neighbor
taps his specially blended tobacco from
his specially ordered meerschaum pipe,
puts his Mark Cross briefcase on the back
seat of his Jaguar and before he gets in
turns to me and says, listen, you want
something to worry about? The next time
I catch your goddam mutt taking a crap
in my wife’s prize petunias, I’m going to
punch your fucking lights out.
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