The Neighbors

The Neighbors
Autos file into parking stalls.
Pau Hana arrivals loosen
Belts, collars.
Shake out their hair.
Dragging keiki, groceries, briefcases, and spent lunch boxes into their portals.
Some to stay in until dawn.
Some will momentarily come from behind their doors,
Dressed as super heroes,
Ready to walk, walk the dog, jog, run,
Catch up with neighbors,
Share stories,
Lock eyes clandestinely,
Smile, lips parted, about to say
Something sweet and meaningless
When a dog or a child or a gust of wind adjusts priorities,
And back they go in to make dinner,
To wonder over bites about nibbles unknown,
while the white noise of a washer and dryer,
the clink of forks and knives on dinner plates,
and the TV in the background
Fill the little pockets of nothing
we have left to ourselves.

Author: lavagal

Hawaii Kai wife and mom. Melanoma Stage 3a Cancer survivor. English Language Learners Coordinator and Paraprofessional Tutor. Super sub teacher. Dormant triathlete. Road cyclist and Masters swimmer. Gardener. Mrs. Fixit. Random dancer. Music Curator. A teenager trapped in an aging body. Did you know 60 is the new 40? It is.

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