I moved into a new house on 7th Street

The neighborhood was quiet

An old man lived next door

I had never seen him

Save the mornings

When I walked

Out my door

And found him peering into his mailbox

When the sun reflected off the pond in his yard

It would shine brilliantly through my window

Waking me up around dawn each day

And I would go out to my mailbox

Only to see the old man

Had beat me to it

With his hand

On the box

Just the same as I had seen him yesterday

When the cloud blocked the sun from reaching the reflecting pool

I would wake up far later than that golden sphere would rise

And escape my bed to the mailbox long after dawn

Where the man was still standing

His hand on the mailbox

Peering into some

Soul of the world

Looking longingly into the dark emptiness of his mailbox

And the man, like the slightly bent box, never moved from his place

And my thoughts, like the man, stayed yet still on his frame

On the idea of the stagnant elder

Checking for the morning mail

That had never arrived

And never would

Piquing my interest into the intentions of the man at the mailbox

Not two weeks since my arrival into the house on 7th street

My curiosity pried me from my bed to the man’s mailbox

Nervously, I moved slowly closer to the man

And upon peering into his glassy eyes

And upon grazing his rubber skin

The mirage of life startled me

While I stared into the small camera on the man’s chest

I remembered each day I had gone out to that box and stared at the old man

Soon believing myself to have become somewhat mad

While wallowing in illusion-based confusion

Peering out my window each day

The man was watching me

With that minuscule lens

Perched on his chest

Studying me

Quietly

An ever-present reminder of some silent judgment between us

An ever-present reminder of some silent judgment on 7th street.