January 2020
Robert Wexelblatt
wexelblatt@verizon.net
Author's Note:  “New Neighbors” aspires to be more complicated than it appears while “Advice to a Distraught Friend” is a response to more than one acquaintance, I’m afraid, exasperated by obsessively following current events.

A note on some new books: Intuition of the News, a fiction collection, is out. Another, Hsi-wei Tales, will be officially published in May but is available to order. There’s also a book of verse, Girl Asleep and Other Poems.

New Neighbors

The new neighbors’ new baby was born a
month after they moved into their new home.
The wife is exceedingly pretty and
knows it, as does her husband. There’s something
of the ballet about them—he’s the stem,
she’s the rose. They own an SUV and
a sport sedan, both German; even their
all-day baby-minder drives an Audi
Q5. Every third day, he mows the lawn and clears
the cuttings with a hundred-decibel blower.
She’s seldom out-of-doors, not even to
take the baby for a stroll. He plays golf;
she entertains young women like herself—
sleek millennials with expensive hair.
On weekdays, the two drive off together
as soon as the Q5 pulls in. To work?
The gym? Their yacht? The sprinklers go off like eight
Old Faithfuls even when it rains. I took
them cherries on moving-in day and, when
the baby came, a toy. A thank-you note
showed up in my mailbox six months later.

Another young couple bought the house next
to theirs. They also have two cars and a baby
delivered soon after the moving van
drove off. I took over another toy.
The wife seemed annoyed that I rang their
bell just to offer a soft toy. This
time, there was no thank-you note at all.

I’ve never seen these four people exchange
a word or wave. They’re self-contained, like
planets or pool balls. I wouldn’t call
their predecessors gregarious, but
they waved, said hi, stopped by, chatted, asked
how it’s going, gave me their medical
updates, offered and accepted help when
needed. To them, I was once the new neighbor.

Other people are a mystery. Even
with good looks, money, new houses and thriving
infants, couples can still be unhappy.

It’s a comfort, somehow, knowing
they’ll never wonder about me.

Advice to a Distraught Friend

In the late rounds, slumping back on the ropes,
the jabs fall faster; the upper-cuts are rough
and keep coming. There’s cheering from the dopes
in the cheap seats. I thought you’d had enough.

But you stand and take them, blow on blow
to the gut, the ribs, your head—why is that?
The fists persist, how low will they go
before you, or the towel, hit the mat?

For every minute you endure the news
give over five to looking at a tree.
That’s my prescription. I myself would choose
a beech. Or, if it’s near, stare at the sea.
©2020 Robert Wexelblatt
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