My Fretful Neighbors
Everything startles them
in the cemetery over there: motorbike
roar, finch chirp, hum of moth; a branch falls,
a candy wrapper blows through the grass,
rain drops patter, stop, start again;
today ends earlier than yesterday
and the moon is older, dimmer, partly gone.
If life would just hold still, they could relax,
let themselves go, leave off being
things that happen. My old friend could quit
visiting me. His smile stops again
every time it almost starts, dimmer
than last time, partly gone—the part
I carried on my face. My ear could put
his voice down. I could stop being
things that happened with him.
The birds might be different, the moths.
Everything might startle.
— Thomas Gorn
October 1st, 2025
(Halloween Day 1)