My neighbor believes in conspiracies.
Everything—from Al Qaeda (which doesn’t exist)
To the attacks in New York,
Global opium trade, the crash of the Euro
Eyjafjallajökull, and the oil spill—is run by the CIA.
He tells me this under the sycamore.
“There’s no way I could be making this up,” he says.
“Benazir Bhutto told the truth to David Frost;
She was assassinated a month later.”
I say, “Maybe we should talk about this inside.”
I’m a minimalist.
Even using the label seems extravagant to me.
I like the way the sun in the morning
Squeezes in between the stems of the tree
And bounces off our bare white bedroom wall.
I like black & white photos, mom & pop stores
A steel string guitar; add a violin, and a harmonica
If you want to go all in,
And tell me a story with a beginning
A middle, and an end.
My neighbor is moving to Uruguay or Ukraine.
I should look into why both countries begin with that letter.
He says, ”I dig in pretty deep sometimes.”
I nod as he walks away,
His dog wagging its tail, in on it too.