The sprightly dog who
leads the rotund man on
their daily walk is gone.
So is his master.

I’ve been away for weeks.
I return to my familiar world
reassembling itself —
a well-used jigsaw puzzle

with a missing piece, my forty-ish
next door neighbor who’s lived
for years on the second floor with his
Jack Russell and their air conditioner.

Each morning as I walked by
they circled the nearby parking lot
gracefully matching steps.

In a town as small as this
neighbors are miniature figures
in dollhouses. My mind’s eye
peers through the cutaways, looks
for substance to support suppositions.

He was younger than I, yet
I worried about him wheezing
up those stairs, was relieved
when I thought he reached
the Everest-like summit
of his chilled rooms.

There’s a stillness now as I look across
the driveway. His kitchen blinds are drawn.
In his bedroom window the air conditioner sags
its rolled cord and plug resting on top.

I know him only from proximity
and greetings in the street.
Still, dismay begins its bloom.
Like a backyard weed, once ignored,
it now signals, swaying: Attend.
Attend to each day, to every hour.