There’s a man next door

a newcomer

between each gap ajar seeps in his presence

who enters every bathroom, every stall and acts like

an acting janitor in with each stroke

plastic toothbrushes precisely lines

the wrinkles on his cargo pants

such in the afternoon, he mows the grass

invisible on our yellow lawns

Next to a poor exhibition of his towers 

of stringy leaves and mud he worked hours on 

In an instant we hear the quiet snores

traversing in a chorus that sings only left not right

Next to his favorite wall

Sleep on a single side in odd dreams

Yet 

we laugh

we laugh

we Laugh

Before

the sharpened toothbrush lies only once more 

in grass, leaves and mud

sucked into a hole

In the wall

I can still hear the echoes

from the next cell

Before the man next door was gone.