If I searched through streets and lanes

In America, I don’t think I could ever find

A neighbor who was more thoughtful,

A man who was more kind.

His twinkling, blue eyes were wrapped in wrinkles                  

That spoke of decades filled with laughter and smiles.

And, every morning right at seven,

As I trudged to my car

And thought of traffic on the thoroughfare,

Mr. Sweeney would be working in his roses,                            

And I have to tell you that his presence there

Made the start to my day not so bad.

Then, every afternoon right at four

As I trudged from my car,

Mr. Sweeney would be filling his bird feeders,                      

And he would extend his spidery, blue-veined hand,

And say, “Welcome home, Little Missy.

I slid your mail under your front door.”

This went on day after day, from Monday to Friday.

On Saturdays, his schedule was the same.                               

However, I was free to run with my friends.

I had shopping to do, movies to see,

And in season, all the football games.

On Sundays, I lounged on my front porch

Tucked safely under shade of the old Sycamore tree          

Standing over my house like an ageless sentry.

I’d sit with a steaming latte and a good book.

Right at nine, I’d stop to look at Mr. Sweeney

As he hobbled to his old Studebaker.

“I’m off,” he’d call, “to make amends with my Maker.”            

I never understood that statement; I gave it little thought.

I’d smile, wave and return to the novel whose escape I sought.

This is the background I wanted to give

Before I began this strange tale to tell

Of the cold, dreary day I awoke and blinked to stare                       

Into the dark, bottomless face of hell.

It was during October, when summer has paled,

And the light has grown sober, as rays bow

To the onset of shorter days.

On Sunday morning I attended to my usual fare,                      

My book and latte curled up in the rocking chair

that occupied the space of my small front porch.

I glanced as Mr. Sweeney locked his front door.

and began the labored chore of walking to his car.

It was then I first saw her,                                                          

across the street and one block down,

Just standing against a streetlight

with arms crossed, and long, black hair tossed to one side;

She wore a black leather coat that touched the ground.

Unnerved by this vixen who had invaded our street                  

I squirmed uneasily in my cushioned seat.

Mr. Sweeney seemed unaware

of the dark insidious glare

from this stranger watching him,

                                                or, was it me she was watching?                                                                         

Either way, I felt threatened and grim.

I dropped my head quickly

and blinked to hide my fear.

Why did I feel evil was lurking?

Why did I feel death was dangerously near?                      

I forced myself to steal a glance

toward the direction where she stood.

I was relieved to see as I looked everywhere,

She had disappeared; the vixen was not there.

All week long I remembered the hateful vision,                  

The scornful creature who glared with such derision,

who stood draped in black-clad attire

and stared at everything living with icy fire.

I became protective of Mr. Sweeney.

I worried this predator might prey upon his frailty.                

I called to check on him from work.

I asked had he seen anyone lurking outside his house.

Always he told me all was grand.

He’d speak of sparrows that had left for warmer lands,

or report that his roses were sleepy,                                        

Ready for the rest that comes from Winter’s hand.

I never saw the wraith from Monday to Friday,

but for six Sundays she always appeared

as she had before beneath that streetlight.

And, while the cold, caustic winds of November                  

blew the tentacles of her hair about,

My day of rest was replaced with stinging fear.

I knew these encounters could not persist

Somehow, I knew I needed to resist

this creature who tormented my Sundays          

Who floated hatred on the air with a javelin-piercing glare.

So, on the seventh Sunday I determined to match

this emissary dispatched to my street.

I began to rake crinkled brown leaves in my yard

Left on my lawn scarred, torn remnants                

of the old Sycamore’s life.

The wind was busy that day,

like a gale challenging a lighthouse’s care,

the wind struck the tree; a branch gave way to air.

I looked when I heard the sudden snap                               

of the wood above me.

Gripped in the paralysis of space,

where time is pressed flat,

 I felt a black glove hold me.

The face of the intruder, her eyes glowing red

loomed inches over my head.                                               

She cackled, she howled, she jeered with delight,

and in a moment, I knew, I would be dead.

Terrified and mesmerized by the daunting apparition,

I realized she was a haunting vision

of another me from another place,                                        

a ghoulish soul with a ghoulish face.

Her features were mine, but they were twisted and cruel,

and suddenly I knew that for years I had been a fool.

This grotesque horror, this rakish creature

was the hidden me that never showed.                             

Somehow, she had escaped to finally consume

this shell of a woman that the world had known.

I screamed as worms oozed from her mouth

to eat the flesh in which I dwelled.

At any second I would be wrapped in fires of hell.    

Like hot coals, the demon’s bites burned,

and I lay limp and cried, for too late I realized

that a price must be paid for years languished on earth.

In me there was no value or worth

to satisfy the weight of my sin.                                                

And now, she, the vile creature within

had ventured out to do me in.

As I came into this world in a fetal position,

I coiled and let the appetite of death take delight

Like always, I couldn’t resist its power and might.          

Whimpering I prayed for God to forgive

the self-absorbed life I had lived.

Then, strangely, as eternal night merged with her black coat,

a ray of light broke over my head,

I opened my eyes to see the worms recede         

back into the mouth of this hungry ghoul,

this enemy within who was Satan’s tool.

My eyes squinted, a change, I could see

The smiling face of old Mr. Sweeney.

With one hand he held a red, red rose,                        

With another, he caressed a helpless sparrow.

He raised no weapon of war,

He seemed not to see hell’s haggish whore.

He only smiled with eyes of love

that must have descended from heaven above.           

But I saw the worms eating her,

The fiend writhed and squirmed.

Abruptly, the ground cracked open

and suddenly she turned

into a vile black soup that was drained                       

into hell’s vat and there the slime churned.

I fainted from exhaustion and when I awoke

Mr. Sweeney was sitting on my grass,

cradling my head and holding a water glass.                                       

Slowly, he turned the liquid toward my lips

and said, “Little Missy, you must have slipped.

I came home from church only to find

you and this broken branch in your yard.

It nearly scared me out of my mind.”                                

“Did you see her?” my voice trembled.

For a second he didn’t answer, no, not a word.

He acted as if my question he had not heard.

But then, with fire in his eyes of blue, he said,

“I love to grow roses, chiefly those that drip blood red,       

and I love to feed the little birds.

Come little sparrow, you need to rest in your bed.”

That was a year ago, this tale I just told,

but no matter how many times I tell it,

                                                          it never gets old.                                                          

Now, from Monday to Friday

every morning right at seven,

I bounce to my car and sing a song

as I drive on the thoroughfare.

                              Mr. Sweeney is working in his roses,                               

and I have to tell you that my neighbor

makes each day more special,

more beautiful by his

                                            loving labor.