Neighbours

Creep behind curtains and
spring out from your front door.
Speak platitudes of weather or
the blossom our pathways share,
the very pathway where I stood in my dressing gown,
begging you to quiet your noise.
You mutter about not being able to remember
where you parked your car: I fantasise
about you walking the streets for days,
like an owner of a lost dog, round in circles
a quest that never ends.
I imagine the piano lid smashing on your fingers,
quelling the tuneless romps you insist upon,
no designated song, just a plinking of keys until we scream
or play AC/DC pressed up against the wall.
I bruise my knuckles banging on the woodchip,
wake up sleep-hungry and drained,
unreasonable and wired.
You wave at us while off to church,
and I wonder if you hate us too.