My neighbor walks around in his yard wearing a navy blue terry robe and slippers. From the looks of it he’s not wearing anything underneath. The top part sags open above the belt and his big flabby chest hang out for all to see. Standing there watering the garden! Hm. It’s a nice house, a big Disneyland-style Victorian painted lime green, maroon, and yellow, cobblestone driveway, black iron gate all around. That sounds a little much but it’s not too bad; it looks like a happy place, but he’s the only one there. And he’s usually frowning. He used to have a fat dog that lay outside all day; we’d walk over to her and she’d just drop to the ground and roll on her back waiting for a belly rub. Oh Fluffy, Oh Fatty Fat Girl, Oh Fluff, we used to talk to her and pet her through the bars of the gate. You’d think such a sweet dog would mean that he’s a nice guy. But no. Sometimes he glares at me from his porch.
Hey, I’m just walking here. Down by your house. What’s with the puss?
I think maybe something sad happened to him, maybe his wife left or his kids don’t visit or he has some kind of deep broken-hearted pain. He can’t even get dressed. But he has a Disneyland house and a nice garden. I can’t get a handle on it because he doesn’t look sad he just looks extremely pissed off. So some days I think How dare you! How dare you try to be mean and righteous while you’re wearing a ratty robe and scuffed-on slippers. You need to get dressed if you want to be angry.
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