Neighbors

Mrs. Morbid from over the fence, tight leggings worn away between your more than ample thighs, you spew hatred, it’s a kid riding his bike, calm down and go wash the flies out what’s left of your hair.

Mr. Trainset, You spend your time hidden in your loft, playboy magazine’s take center stage, you miniature choo choo’s still boxed, we all hear you cry out, muffled by the bin bag draped over your head, it’s still full of congealed egg shells and old orange peel, buy a new one.

Mr. and Mrs. matching yellow cardigans, yes we all know you swap clothing when behind those 1970’s Sunflower printed curtains, Mr. or Mrs. baking cupcakes while limping in stilettos, Mrs. or Mr. with a false moustache, you look thoughtful when smoking that pipe, Cheap woman’s magazine within the financial times, play...it’s your game.

Mr. Pretend Lawyer, You leave your house in a dashing 3 piece suit you bought from a dead people's charity shop, those case files are nothing but your childhood macaroni pictures, You must enjoy driving that bus in disguise.

Mr. Cyclist, hanging your inflatable wife on the washing line each Sunday, she is faded, too much bleach, buy a new one or are you so attached to this one?

Mrs. Lady dog walker, You have such a nice bum, those boots more suited to riding a horse, you pick up your dog’s mess with a bare hand and place it inside your anorak pocket, but thanks for doing that.

Mr. Me, You all watch me as I watch you, you scoff at me when I drain pasta on the lawn, you have seen Mrs. Yellow cardigan visits with cupcakes in foil, you have seen her lay naked on the dining room floor, yes Mrs. Morbid she knows you watch, Free lessons for your invisible banjo.

What about your neighbors?