that artist who brings red roses to his mother's front yard everyday.
He stifled a drunken rebellion
in time for us to sleep naked under comets and Jupiter's eye.

I never knew what became of his sister
or his wife.  He makes
the most beautifully haunting music,

the way the tell-tale heart beats under the boards.
I see him in black
against falling snow and a brown path.

No one ever thought to ask him what happened to his neighbor's dog,
or his newly manicured lawn. But there he is
each morning, walking down the street; and we greet.

I sigh each time he bows his head
and tips his fedora to cover his eyes as we pass each other,
hoping to see him again.