From the kitchen, I catch the neighbor
cross the street to switch off my car’s interior lights.
He returns to his house without announcing the favor.
For the last three years, a friend has woken early
and walked the beach, combing for bottle caps
and frayed fishing line. She mentions this
only casually at lunch, after I’ve asked
what she did that morning.
Care has a quiet soundtrack: the sycamore’s
rustling leaves, your nails tracing my shoulder blades.
A melody that repeats—a bit like Ravel’s Boléro.
When it was first performed, a woman shouted,
Rubbish! from the balcony. She called Ravel
a madman. I think I understand. I wish I didn’t.
I’ve been taught that art must have conflict,
that reason must meet resistance.