Creepy

I love this time of year - the way the air smells, the way voices echo in the cool morning. I've been known to be fond of Halloween decorations, but living in the city has curbed my enthusiasm a bit.

Maybe it is my fondness for the creepy and macabre, but I woke up this morning w. this poem 1/2 formed. Look over your shoulder. I don't think I will ever look at neighbours the same way again.
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Candid

I watch you waving your arms in the sunshine,
at a parade with your daughter, both peroxide,
brutally blonde so that light and hair seem one.

You ignored my signs, first the blue-green beetle then
the tuba I placed in your driveway. Vintage.
Into the trash it went. But I forgive.

The years have stopped you from crying.
Three children will do that - remove feeling,
make an actress of a woman lost in moment.

If I revealed the truth over coffee - the neighborhood
without crime - and you in the mirror
mouthing disgust and confusion, perhaps.

Old movies aren't enough for the modern
girl holding years,
holding back her basic yearning.

I watch you and swim in the unseen,
the small things you know me to be -
a quiet, unassuming gentleman.