Albert used to spend whole days
alone in his garage.
A little fridge with cold brews
and a wall of empty crates.

He'd also nurture his garden,
rarely speaking to people.

At one point something went down,
went downhill from there.

One morning he fainted at work
and never woke up.
****** cancer.

When my mother heard of it over the phone,
she went hysterical; yelling in the streets and alerting the neighborhood.
Thinking back on her reaction,
it annoys the **** outa me.
Albert was our neighbor,
even if the kids would call him uncle.

I've had a lot of uncles who weren't
my relatives.
Not that my mother was a *******,
it's just rural working class tradition,
i used to think.
Today i know it's just that we've all got issues.

Anyway,
i like to remember Albert's indigo pickup truck,
his alcohol red nose and little smile.
I recall wondering what there was to do
alone in one's garage.
A man's thing, her wife would say.
Having kids all over the appartement
because where they lived was also a daycare,
Maybe she annoyed the **** outa him.


I can only relate,
i despised this daycare
so close to home but not quite home.
Caring isn't only a day thing after all,
we all have to make a living,
but i didn't feel quite alive at the neighbor's daycare.
Always having to share, toys, tv time, germs.
I'd much rather spend some time alone in a garage, like uncle Albert.

Some ******* peace and quiet.