Howdy Neighbor
Rachael Ikins and her Dachshund Lowrider
The Bite by Rachael Ikins
“She bit me in the ass!” He yelled,
I staggered down the driveway trying to hold a barking dachshund in my arms
to capture the dog who had bitten him, black Lab Annie.
She swirled around my legs. He behaved as if I had asked her
to chomp his butt. I wanted to shout, “Do you expect me to say, ‘great’?”
Instead, blurted “Oh no!”
Babbling,. “I’m so sorry. She is a nice dog.”
I couldn’t help notice, as he repeated “She bit me in the ass!”
what well -developed, muscular gluts. Used to distance.
.
My traitor mouth opened to say, “And what a lovely ass it is.”
I bit my lip, silent laughter. “Has she had a rabies shot?”
Should I dash to the house to root through boxes for
her rabies certificate. She was up to date.
He asked me pinching torn shorts between two fingers
away from his body as he twisted his waist to inspect the wound.
I tried to look anywhere but at his backside.
A good grip on Annie’s collar I hadn’t dropped struggling, loud Lowrider.
Willie stuck behind my legs. Blind Phyllisie barked encouragement.
I dragged Annie up the driveway, yelling at Willie and after what felt like hours,
yanked the door open, we surged into the house. Quickly I walked back to
the jogger. Dogs ran to windows to comment.
Finally, the runner, who never offered his name said
“no need,” the certificate.
Satisfied knowing she’d had her shots.
Gruffly he added, “She didn’t really hurt me. She was just
doing her job.” Off he ran. Safe from his eyes,
I stared at his rippling muscles as he disappeared around the curve
up the road, my face aflame.
The Wisdom of Zoltar by John Hicks
Do not go gentle unto that good night,
reads the strip of paper from the fortune teller booth.
He’s got the moves: eyes, hand over the glowing ball,
mouth that moves to a Hungarian accent.
Would another quarter have gotten the quote right?
I know what the poem’s about.
Maybe it’s wrong for a reason? My last quarter.
What does Zoltar know? He wants more money.
I knew a woman who rented photo booths
to wedding parties— rendered your life event
into four-photos strips. Is that what Zoltar’s doing?
I need change for another go.
The popcorn lady says no purchase, no change.
At ninety-five cents, there’d be no quarters.
Cotton candy, the same. The balloon guy:
I buy five, get my quarter, give them to a boy.
As I leave, I hear his sister:
Billy, where’d you get those balloons?
Will Zoltar know me when I return?
What if someone got there while I was away?
Hey Zoltar, it’s me. I’m back. Remember me?
I’m channeling Tom Hanks as I deposit my quarter.
The crystal ball lights up. Zoltar’s eyes move;
widen at me. A beefy hand grips my shoulder,
spins me around. A sunburn with clenched teeth
shakes the strings of five balloons in my face.
What’s the big idea giving my kid these balloons?
First appeared in River City Poetry
Suddenly, Kindness by Shaun R. Pankoski
I'm balanced on the ledge of the reach-in refer,
as I'm wont to do on account of my height,
straining to grab the last creamer
on the top shelf, way in the back,
and suddenly, there's a boy. A tall, gangly boy,
with ear buds, tattoos, the suggestion of a moustache.
He comes up behind me, asks me politely,
“Can I help you with that, Auntie?”
then reaches up effortlessly, grinning broadly.
I'm at the self-checkout, struggling to weigh my onions,
and suddenly, there's a girl. Her hair smells like flowers,
dark eyes fringed with impossible lashes. Shyly,
she shows me how. Her name tag says Makana. A gift.
I'm steering the cart toward my truck to unload,
my eyes cast upward at threatening skies. Any minute now,
the weather will soak me, and suddenly, there's a man,
a crinkly smile on his wind-burned face, with crispy hair and a faded tee.
An old surf rat, or a vet, coming out of the jungle
for his once-a-month shopping. “Let me give you a hand with that, Sis.
I'll take your cart back, save you a trip.”
It rained all the way home. But it was the gentle, steady kind.
The thirsty ground soaked it right up.
TEMPORARY DISTRACTION by Lori Lavy
Smile, says the old man in the Triple A parking lot
when I cross his path as if he’s stone or air—
as if I can’t see farther than what’s troubling me—
my face closed tight against the world.
He’s pushed a button and my lips react,
curve themselves into the shape he wants.
There. I knew you could, he says.
I imagine telling him what’s on my mind:
pap smears and gynecologists, my daughter’s health and mine;
why her periods, suddenly, are too long, mine too short.
I imagine his response:
how he’d nod and pat my arm,
reassure me with a word or two.
And though I do not stop to chat—
for that would be as out of character as
a bashful child jumping up to sing—
my smile widens and turns real,
melting inward like a flood of warmth,
as when a song you’ve always loved
comes on the radio and fills you up again,
if only for a moment.
LEO ON THE ROOF by Mary Ellen Talley
Only demented people straddle roofs.
I mean to say, The man with dementia
straddled the roof. I mean to say, The man
who years ago refurbished a swing set for my children
straddled his roof, checking to see
if there were leaks. He still wore
his City Light overalls every day. I snapped a photo
and he waved back at me. Then I called
his wife and asked if she knew where Leo was.
She said she lost that battle.
His wife, Betty, straddled the fence
deciding when it was time for Leo
to live somewhere with a flat roof
and no ladders.
Two poems by Sharon Waller Knutson
Bad Neighbors Build Bad Fences
with apologies to Robert Frost
Dressed in black
and wearing
a six shooter
in a holster
on his hip
like Gary Cooper
in High Noon,
our neighbor
walks the line
between our two
properties for two
years with three
trained attack dogs.
Since he knows
the property line
by heart it is a surprise
when we wake up
to a fence on 2,000 square
feet of our property.
My husband shows him
the official land survey
and asks him to remove
the fence and put it on
the proper property line.
The neighbors asks,
Are you going to stop
watering the wildlife
and cows? My husband
replies no and he says,
Then I am not moving
the fence and walks away.
My husband asks his girlfriend,
a short squat forty something blonde
in boots, fringes and cowgirl hat,
to remove the fence from his property
and she gives him some
song and dance about the GPS
and finding a pin in the wash
and she too walks away.
It’s on our property, just move
the fence yourself, I say.
I’m not as strong as I used
to be, my 78-year-old husband
says. I’ll have to have help.
We wait through the hot humid
summer to the fall when our
friends return from summering
in Idaho. His cousin shows up
in a wheelchair with Valley Fever.
All the others take one look
at the neighbor with the gun
and snarling dogs and say: No way.
Then we read the property owners
post on the Neighborhood Page
threatening to have two guys
in a white pickup arrested
for scaring away and saving
the life of a deer her teenage son
was attempting to kill with a bow
and arrow. It is illegal to spoil
someone’s first hunt, she writes.
Since we don’t want a bullet
in the brain or arrow in the heart,
or a Doberman slitting our throat,
my husband goes to the sheriff’s
department to file a criminal
complaint for trespassing, theft
and harassment. The deputy
takes an incident report but says:
There’s nothing we can do.
Consult with an attorney.
We know it would be cheaper
To buy a property than sue them.
My husband stands at the window
staring at the fence and suddenly
is short of breath and lightning bolts
of pain strike his lower back.
Avoid stress, the doctor says
So he closes the drapes
but the fence still sits silently
while the neighbors smirk.
He puts a note in our will
in case we drop dead
before they get tired of starring
in their own western movie
where they are the good guys
and we are the bad guys.
Four Days After Christmas
We read our neighbor’s letter
as we stare out the window
at her broken-down horse trailer,
disabled SUV, and pile of discarded
appliances and mattresses
sticking out like a Saguaro
in a field of sunflowers.
Your property is yours. No one
has a right to say you can’t
have junk and garbage, she says
as she reveals her rule ridding plan.
She asks for votes and says
she’ll get back to us with the results
of her poll. We do not respond.
On Cinco de Mayo, as the Palo
Verde’s golden blossoms
hide some of the junk,
the neighbor sends us a copy
of a document she recorded
in which she names five rule
breaking buddies on the block
as joining her in releasing the rules
as if they are standing outside
releasing balloons in a blue sky.
The problem is she needs four
times as many to get the job done.
My husband picks up a mouse
by the tail dragging a mousetrap
and releases it outside and delivers
the bad news to the neighbors
that because she broke the rules
they are not released
from their legal obligation
to clean up their messes.
Four poems by Lynn White
The Neighbours Fish
The neighbours had asked her to feed their fish.
They were going on a short holiday.
It sounded straightforward,
should have been straightforward.
“But I overfed it,” she said,
“and it burst open,
exploded
all over the place.”
She looked glum.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Next thing is
the dog’s eaten it.
And that wasn’t the end of it,
next thing is
he started to be sick,
just puked it up all over their carpet.”
She looked glum.
“The carpet’s wrecked,” she said.
First published in Scrittura
On Our Bikes
We only had two bikes between the five of us.
Mine was a very grand drop handle barred affair
given by our next door neighbours’ daughter
when she finally left home.
Roger’s was an old ‘sit up and beg’ with a bit of rust
and brakes that (unknown to his mother) did not work.
Our parents supported us on our faltering two wheels,
first in our back yards, then in the street,
where we taught the rest.
Then we were off!
On the road!
Brakes or no brakes,
it wasn’t a problem!
Just made the hills
more or less exciting
and there was little traffic.
All the roads on our estate were allowed,
only the bottom road,
the main road bordering the countryside,
was forbidden and we obeyed.
We didn’t ride there.
Then a catastrophe struck.
It was a perfect storm.
The combination of the steep hill,
the junction with the bottom road,
the bike with no brakes,
traveling unavoidably, at full speed,
and a car passing along the bottom road
at that precise moment,
all came together.
It was a catastrophe that took Roger straight
into the side of the car and over the top.
The bike was almost undamaged,
but Roger was tearful.
He wasn’t hurt,
just fearful
of his mother,
as the driver insisted on
taking him home and would
listen to no argument against this.
After shouting a lot,
his mother took an axe
and chopped up the bike
until bent and broken enough
to satisfy her, then
she put the pieces
into the big dustbin.
She saw us watching.
“Don’t you amalgamate round here”,
she shouted, shooing with her arms.
It was her favourite expression
and usually made us laugh,
behind her back,
but not now,
with this tragedy.
We had only one bike
between the five of us.
First published in Silver Birch Press
Earwigs
My neighbour was sweeping up.
“Beware of earwigs,”
she said.
“they go in through your ear,
crawl round your brain
and tickle you to death”
Her name was Rosie.
She cleaned trains for a living.
No earwig survived where she swept.
Fortunately not many travelled by train.
First published in Trash
Amalgamating
“Don’t you lot amalgamate round here!”
my friend’s mother used to shout
whenever she saw us playing in the street.
Am-al-ga-mate.
We loved the sound of it.
It made us laugh.
It was not a word ever heard
in our working class street.
We didn’t know what it meant
so we looked it up
in the library’s dictionary.
Am-al-ga-mate.
What a word!
We used to gather round there
just to hear her say it,
just for a laugh.
First published in Briefly Write
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