things change

every neighborhood,
or street, or building,
or floor has a boss,
a mayor, an unofficial,
unelected leader
of the pack. a furher.
someone who has lived
there longer than
everyone else
and feels that she
or he has the right
to rule. mine likes
to post notes upon
your door, manifestos
of your sins,
if you haven't shoveled
your walk properly,
or not at all, or if
your trash has been
put out before sundown,
or if the dog barks
too much, too loud,
too long. perhaps your
parking sticker is not
visible or up to date.
she'll write you up
and tape her greviances
to the door on a large
sheet of white paper
so that everyone can
see as they get home,
including me. there is no
wave in her, no hello,
no greeting whatsoever.
just a grim nod, a vague
acceptance of your
existence. but this has
changed. the other day
i noticed that her head
was shaved. she was
completely bald and had
lost considerable weight.
she didn't look well
and when seeing me she
smiled, she waved, as if
we were suddenly the best
of friends she yelled out
pleasantly, hey steve,
how are you? how are
things going?