My neighbor's curtains are ragged They hang in tatters and shreds I wonder about the state of his soul: If his spirit is alive or dead. He plays Bruce Springsteen loudly He yells along with The Clash Perhaps he is in there dying Maybe he is just getting smashed. I wonder about the days he plays Kenny Rogers and Lucinda Williams. Is he in there longing for some Long lost country home again? Or is he feeling his oats A little kick to all that smoke? I suppose it doesn't matter I guess I don't much really mind But might yell a request to Put on something different Of a jazzier bluer kind. I wonder what he thinks of me Singing Fire and Rain and Have A Cup of Tea? Padding around my room In slippers, smelling the Coffee and the blooms In a fug of ugly self pity Shut in the safety of my tomb. I washed my curtains yesterday I threw them in the tub I had water up to my elbows And began to scrub scrub scrub I can't risk someone wondering About who is shut indoors Questioning my entertainment My existence, my work In relation to other people's laws. I turned down the music Then put my headphones in Piped some wall to wall Miles Davis into the Bathroom full of steam. He is playing Thunder Road again And boy he is playing it loud. Yet I never see anyone else go in To form some party-orientated crowd. Just how do curtains get that wasted Did birds tear them apart? Perhaps he sits with scissors Trying to let the light in Past the white boy jersey shore Dumb butt rock Brucey sound.