We live as neighbors for 30, 40 years.
We wave at each other if we happen
To make eye contact.

We sometimes meet while walking our dogs;
We make dog talk and avoid third-rail topics
(there are so many now).

Young newcomers to the neighborhood
Sometimes host parties; we have found
Good reasons to avoid them.

When one of us dies, we often don’t know it
Until we see the dumpster outside their house,
Kids and grandkids cleaning out.

Then silence, an empty driveway,
Doors left open to the wind.

Greg Friedmann lives with his wife on a channel of the Potomac River in Northern Virginia, a locale that inspires the riparian and exurban themes found in many of his poems.

Appears In

Issue 10

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