You Never Visit Anymore

I'd hear the neighbor taking a cold shower.
Brief,
mostly lonesome.

He was meaty. Liked bikes and the galaxy.
His nephew would call every other week or so and I'd hear him tell tall tales.

On the other side was a big bitch.
Rap, rap, rap against the wall with what I presumed to be a broom or some horribly cliche witch-type-tool.
Bitch.


Beneath was the rotten ground where once Native Americans were slain and buried.
Not sacred I'm sure, but rotten with the meat of old humans.

Outside most mornings was a bald cat that I dubbed Leonard or Leona depending on my mood.


The place suited me just fine.
I imagine the landlord burned it for insurance purposes, and not for its lack of character.