I am your neighbor, and one day while at work,
my husband mangled his right hand in
the factory's machine, the one the bosses
refused to fix. He is right-handed.
They said it was his fault and shook him
'round in court to nix paying him a penny.

I am your neighbor, but when my husband took to drink,
all sorrowful at the brink of the abyss..
  (He could not feed his family and shifted in dark pits)
You discussed our kind in the salon, calling us immoral and weak.

I took in laundry and brought bread to my family.
I worked hard to the knotting of my fingers,
to the graying of my hair, to
the withering of my skin and womanhood.

One day, my children brought home work from school,
and my heart fell. I did not understand the words.
New school words grew fatter and longer with each month passing.
I did not know the ways of numbers that bounced beyond one plus five
and two times nine to minus signs before them and wavy lines
and symbols and checkered papers my children called graphs.
We stayed up late wrestling monster words and goblin numbers,
and did not finish the tasks. And so, the Miss Sallies and
Miss Daisies, my children's teachers who had husbands
and nice houses called my babies "dumb and lazy."

Each day my body soured, snarling at me and strange turns of life.
We slipped behind. I washed for others but
stretched my heart to threads trying to keep down dirt, trying
to smother strife in my own house that aged into cracked floors
and chipped windows.
My eyes failed, perhaps from sewing in dim light, perhaps from weeping.
I think I must've missed breadcrumbs when sweeping.
I gave the children chores but fell asleep until
the roar of sun across my face stirred me, missing duties left undone.

One day, I saw a roach.

I am your neighbor and you saw me and my house falling.
You sent your husband by one day to tell me that my fence offended,
its crumbling paint and neglected wood, an eyesore to be mended.
I stared into his pale eyes wondering,
"What can I feed the children when they get home?
We have one cup of milk and a few grains of rice."

A cockroach scurried across the porch and his foot
while I thought of my children crying.
He grimaced in disgust, left without good-bye and
I saw you watching from behind blue, gingham curtains.

At the barbers he discussed how filthy my kind are, how slow and lazy.
You dropped by and reminded him to tell of the cockroach.

The next day the sun roared across my face,
but I remained in bed, ill. I could not work.
The children cleaned as children clean and went to school.
Afraid, my husband left in search of some small job to win and rule
with his left hand, and I prayed that the world would be healed.

I am your neighbor and heard that on this same day
your husband slipped at work. The handrail gave way,
the one on the south wing stairs that should have been repaired
last week. He then had a stroke...
The bosses are screaming, I am told, that the stroke made him choke
and fall and not the handrail which they failed to fix.
They will shake you in court for years to nix paying you a penny.

When my husband came home that day, he smiled.
He'd found a job collecting baskets at Wal-Mart.
He drinks less now and helps the children with schoolwork.
I don't mind saying he's smarter than I am with numbers.
I too am better and am taking in laundry again.

I am your neighbor and delivered laundry to my son's old teacher,
Miss Sally, today. She's surprised
to hear he's doing well in Miss Johnson's class.
She also is shocked at how life goes.
She told me how she brought a pie by your house,
the Christian thing to do since you've been ill,
and while there, she wondered if your husband had spilled
a bottle of bourbon, either that, she said, or he'd been drinking.
I was silent as she spoke, thinking
on the turns of life.

And then she said, at your house, in plain view,
she saw a roach.

I am your neighbor. I'd like to know what I can do to help you.
That's why I'm here today with pail, soap, sponge, and roach spray.

© Copyright 2006 Nordette Adams