Neighbors

There was always a better chance of
hearing an argument than seeing
a light shine from the house
across the street.

Oftentimes there were angry voices
yelling about
money,
the car payments,
the cesspool,
the mortgage,
the pitbull
chewing something up,
again.

It was always later in the day
that I would see her—
her car, rather—
and the garage door opening
and her silver car entering
the darkness that possessed
that house.

At various times of the day
I’d see his white van,
a mobile advertisement
for Bill’s Cleaning Company,
parked in the drive,
there in the morning
and there at night.

I hope they went somewhere bright
when they actually did leave;
because for all the money I heard about,
one of them should have seen some light.