Neighbor
This is for Wacowho lives in the next building overwhose kitchen door opensopposite my kitchen doorin the narrow passage that runsbetween our two shoebox apartmentswho smokes cigarettes down to the filteror fartherwho keeps more girlfriends than I doand who salutes every passing womanyoung or old good-looking or notwith a smile and aHallo baybee
and is always saluted backThis is for Wacowho sings up to the windows of crying childrenin the apartment above usCanta no llores
who was born and raised in Norwayand came for work in the harborwho sailed with the Merchant Marines in WWIIand whose knotty forearms bloom blots of indigo inkwho ambles with two caneson legs as badly bowed as my grandfather’swhose face is furrowed from decades outdoorsbut whose stub-fingered handshakestill clasps like a visewho was the only neighbor to introduce himself firstwhen I first moved to this townand who I sit with sometimes over coffee or beerwhose small company in this narrow passage keeps usin conversation and laughterwhich I will remember long after his time here is upand I have moved on