My neighbor—I call him The Mensch—appears to be a bit drunk this
morning. But instead of getting antsy with boredom and chain smoking until
falling asleep in his deck chair like he usually does, it looks as if he’s trying to
tie a falling ivy vine to his railing, to give it some guidance, I suppose, as to
where it should continue to forge on from the second floor…and beyond! I
guess his doing, karma-wise, is the right thing, considering how many times
he’s pissed off that deck onto his neighbor’s plants below...The ivy will
eventually catch on…or die. Either way, I should wave.
“Hello!” His ash, as long as the cigarette butt, teeters with grace between
his gums as he looks up from his ball of twine.
Life is better awake on mornings like this, I think, wearing
nothing but my boxers, and no shoes—having no shoes is the kicker when
negotiating a plea to unlock the door.
“Where’s Joni’s Nobel Prize?!”
“Maybe next year,” he replies.