The New Neighbor

The New Neighbor

I haven’t met the young man who
is moving in next door.
I’ve seen his gleaming Hummer knock-off,
the moving van, his mother
(blonde, long-legged, fit),
newly purchased ceramic pots
filled with fresh annuals on the
front porch positioned next to a wicker
rocking chair with a flowered
seat cushion.
I’ve seen the decorators traipse
in and out of the house with
paint chips and fabric swatches,
gardeners working in the yard,
weeding, pruning, ripping down
the fence that belonged to the neighbor.
I’ve learned that his family owns
homes in Lake Tahoe, Los Angeles
and now here, and that they have
a private plane.
I can’t imagine a young man choosing to
decorate his pad with chintz sofas
and fussy annuals.
I’m sure I’ll cross paths with the
young man next door.
I’ve already met his mother.