Spending Time (Poetry)

He’s bound to keep house better than I do —
I could do better, like old school reports —
but I spend too much time dreaming
out of windows, watching others live.

My neighbour lives alone but has
his dog for company. Small man, small dog.
He feeds the birds tidily from a feeder
and seems generally fastidious, conscientious —
like old school reports.

His unshakeable routines — habits-to-set-the-watch-by —
tell me Saturday is car wash day. A small performance,
an extract from his life. What I don’t know about him
makes him interesting so I speculate.

He has to use a stool to reach across the roof,
his arm a blur of suds and rhythmic energy.
A short, round bearded man near middle-aged,
locked into a strict role-play of himself.

This observation lark is thirsty work.
I make myself a coffee, struggle on.
He’s rinsing now, chasing the soapy streams
across the path and neatly down the drain. Well done.
And a star for presentation.

After an hour I have the shell of a poem
and he has a clean car that will need
cleaning again by next week.
His homework’s always done on time,
I almost envy him his dedication.

But I’ve got thoughts to polish, odd ideas to dust
and nagging duty rarely prompts too much
of a diversion. I need to concentrate on other things,
undisciplined, as each fresh subject finds
its own excuse.