The fan blows hot air

The fan blows hot air

From one end of the deck

To the other.

The temperature climbs

Higher than comfort

Heavy with humidity

The Euphorbia thrives,

Its many red flowers

Bouncing happily in the damp draft.

They always seem to look forward

To another day of sunlight

Nothing else moves

Until

Not ten feet away

The man from next door

Climbs clumsily

Onto his garage roof

Without any points

For artistic interpretation

Or thought to say hello.

Wire brush in hand

He scrubs at his gutters.

The pigeons used to call,

Until he installed

A scary owl thingy

Which flaps and flashes in the breeze

The noise it makes can be a little

Unnerving

When all I need is peace.

If he were to speak

Acknowledge my presence

I might reply.

Instead

I wonder whether

I should leave.

The awkwardness of my situation

Is clearly written

In ink.

To pour a drink

The last thing I need

Is for him to think I’m a dipso.

Even though

In a literal sense,

I am.