The Mermaid

 
Not that many friends anymore,
only a few still around,
after the stroke moved its way
into cardiac arrest,
leaving my right side less able.
Now I live in a plaster fortress
hiding from fights, making myself small
like a toddler, drunkenly falling over,
ashes, ashes,
battling myself with my own sword,
the silence after the garbage truck leaves
in the early dawn,
so gentle, oh so gentle.

My neighbor getting wasted on cheap wine,
at night, sings out-of-tune Tracy Chapman.
He becomes a star for an evening,
through the wall every six months or so.
I think of him as a brother,
just older and more together,
wearing his fisherman’s beanie
and sun-bleached green sweatshirt —
he swims in a saltwater pool
every weekday at 8 am
a mermaid gliding through liquid,
so quiet it’s almost imperceptible.

***

(Featured image from Pexels)