Phil Huffy

Dear Neighbor, or should I begin without such hesitation?
For “Moron” might do well if truth be told.

Your fire pit, oh my, is such a thoughtless installation.
One wonders how you came to be so bold.

A little backyard fun is an acceptable tradition.
To gather is the nature of our kind,

but lately, you’ve begun committing errors of emission,
and never care to ask if I would mind.

We’ve had to clear the deck and leave our porch, with all its screening,
since smoke annoys no matter where we are.

So keep yourself in check or fate may soon be intervening
to deposit glowing embers on your car.

And then came the last of the Beetles!
Indeed, business constantly slowed.
The newspapers cleverly said it,
in proclaiming the end of the road.

I had one, you know, and remember
the feel of its primitive seat
and challenges faced in the summer
to turn off the blasted thing’s heat.

And as for advancement of romance,
at drive-ins or other locales,
I’d venture to blame its compactness
on the dearth of amenable gals.

My neighbor now harbors a Beetle.
I think it’s a ’73.
I’ve thought about making an offer –
ten bucks and my old SUV.

What sort of chap collects pocket knives,
consigned to basements, sheds and drawers?

Taken out, looked at and put back, sometimes
in an original box with a wildlife scene.

Their service often limited to the laceration
of writing paper and deconstruction of boxes.

Recipients of tiny drops of 3 in 1 oil to assure
smooth opening and a decisive snap,

their owners holding them as time travelers
to youthful and carefree days.

What sort of chap remembers the ancient kitchen
in which he watched Dad smoke, learned
to say “More soup, please,”

and received a red pocket knife, all for his own,
not knowing that he would someday dream of still
having it?

I walked the old street last night
and found your front steps now claimed
by new sweethearts who are probably
ignorant of the historical significance of that
spot, marking as it does the starting place of
our long and harmonious relationship,
except for that rough patch in the late 80’s.

Her face, oddly square,
affronted by years of defeat
has an expressive sadness
highlighted by wormlike lips

Her purchase, an ordered array of
frozen things, soups, fruit drink
and packs of knee highs
bearing health claims

“I’ll leave the bleach”
The bleach will stay behind;
for what sanguine purposes
had it been intended?

She bumbles away as I advance
my Snickers and settle,
then drive off, passing her,
walking, resolute, surviving