Woman Next Door
A poem
She cooked up aromatic meals
that would tear up my nostrils
and leave my taste buds longing.
That was the woman next door.
She woke before the sun rose
she sang and prayed so loud
my dreams would pause to listen.
That was the woman next door.
She cleaned and washed,
she sang and showered,
in the darkest hour of dawn.
That was the woman next door.
She stood in line with heels so high,
she rode the bus with the common man.
She went to work with an ugly suitcase.
That was the woman next door.
She returned with a guest;
she giggled and he whispered
as audibly as they could.
That was the woman next door.
She laughed wickedly in the dark of the night,
in awesome sync with muffled screams
from her guest.
Then the silence was deafening.
That was the woman next door.
She dug and pruned when dawn arrived.
She shoveled and mulched,
the flowers and veggies blossomed.
That was the woman next door.
She worked with the dew
and sang with the bloom,
as she did an unusual burial.
That was the woman next door.
Her charm was tastier
than a cold drink in summertime.
Many were they who became her guest,
just as many left six feet beneath her garden.
That was the woman next door.
He left me for the woman next door.
Unknown to him,
that will be his last night of pleasure.
He will die by the woman next door.
