There Goes the Neighborhood
If I were to go outside in my underwear—
Tight tighty-whiteys on the crisp, green lawn—
And point with my fingers at the neighbor’s house
And make machine gun sounds with my mouth,
Spittle flying from between blubbering lips,
Would you still love me?
Or would you keep up appearances,
Open the curtains in the bedrooms as you made the beds,
Let light shine in with its yellow pool,
Quietly approach the neighbor with a plate of something
And say, “He’s just not himself today.”
