The crazy neighbor lady
doesn't have twenty cats
but might as well have thirty
the way the carpet paths
between leaning book piles
look like they're shedding.
The crazy neighbor lady
doesn't keep her house
of chaos ordered well -
but she knows where
the sprinkles, paper
glue, and berry baskets are
for the neighbor girl
when she comes knocking
to play and do what she
calls ought which rhymes
with not, lot, and rot but is
really spelled a-r-t.
She goes, leaving glitter
behind, blessings left
to wink at me on the chair,
table, floor, and my hair.
The crazy neighbor lady
goes out early to
water flowers - and pick
a weed or two bottoms up -
with her uncombed
gray tresses flowing and
her loose breasts flapping
under a coffee stained
robe worn to shreds.
The crazy neighbor lady
garden walks in the golden,
guilt framed morning light
and lingers for a drunken
tete-a-tete with the blossoms
drinking dew straight from
the Master's still.
The crazy neighbor lady
scoops both cats off the
front porch swing, brings
a blanket and some tea - so
you may rest awhile
and beloved be.
