Neighbor
This is for Waco
who lives in the next building over
whose kitchen door opens
opposite my kitchen door
in the narrow passage that runs
between our two shoebox apartments
who smokes cigarettes down to the filter
or farther
who keeps more girlfriends than I do
and who salutes every passing woman
young or old good-looking or not
with a smile and a
Hallo baybee
and is always saluted back
This is for Waco
who sings up to the windows of crying children
in the apartment above us
Canta no llores
who was born and raised in Norway
and came for work in the harbor
who sailed with the Merchant Marines in WWII
and whose knotty forearms bloom blots of indigo ink
who ambles with two canes
on legs as badly bowed as my grandfather’s
whose face is furrowed from decades outdoors
but whose stub-fingered handshake
still clasps like a vise
who was the only neighbor to introduce himself first
when I first moved to this town
and who I sit with sometimes over coffee or beer
whose small company in this narrow passage keeps us
in conversation and laughter
which I will remember long after his time here is up
and I have moved on