Deconstruction
The neighbors across the street tear down
their house
no flood, no fire—
like a new hairdo,
they just want a change
a pink porta-potty, toxic flower, blooms across the street
a parade of men—
some workers, some passersby
use it while I eat my lunch
Mid-week, a truck comes and drains the standing
pee with a long-coiled hose
I try not to look while I have my noon tea
Then the war in Ukraine
I imagine a family huddled in the porta-potty,
a family living in the bones of my neighbor’s home
I hate my neighbors for their hubris
then I look to myself—
my house’s square feet and its empty rooms
It is easier to hate my neighbors