“Multiple ways to avoid stuff but really
no way to actually not do anything,”
says my neighbor Daniel as he, once again,
fails to wash/wax his Volkswagen.
Daniel works for the eldercare police.
He says he’s also a novelist and essayist.
“Well, I need to go inside now. Your wife
has been sneaking over at night,”
I say, whimsically, almost profoundly,
my hands extended in a Christ-like welcome,
though no stigmata apparent. “Haha,”
retorts Daniel, occasionally onto me.
I amble into my shady hut, my thatched
domicile, my crappy bachelor lodge
to retrieve a Diet Coke from the oven.
Those were carefree days. Innocuous Dan,
his dull car, our banter, and finally
a baked no-calorie cola, bubbly hot,
the way clues lead into deeper mystery—
a half-tuned television on somewhere.