It's winter again.
The buildings huddle
together, as if for warmth.
The wind cuts down the alley
between us and them so sharply
that I can pick out the note.
It's an E-flat.

It's Sunday.
We make a pipe organ
with our little alley,
just me and my wife
and the cat
and the burglars
who live next door.

They like their
Christian Brothers
brandy, and they love
their fellow man.
They also love
his T.V. and his stereo.
I'm insured
against my neighbors.

I hate their dog.
They hate the color
of my skin.
I'm afraid their
dog will bite me.
They're afraid that
I'm a racist, or that I
don't like burglars.
They're right.
I don't like burglars.

They don't trust me
and I don't trust them.
Other than that, there's
nothing much between us.
Just hate and fear and
this narrow E-flat alley.

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