potatoes and stringbeans

you sit at your
keyboard,
hands on the letters
awaiting
instructions.
nothing comes.
you look out
the window.
the woman next
door is weeding
her garden
in her underwear.
you know her
in passing.
she's always
on a diet,
or getting some
sort of surgery
to ehance a portion
of her body.
she's wearing
flip flops
and a ball cap.
a tiger bra
and matching
panties.
you stare at
her for a minute
or two then
turn away
and write about
lumpy mashed
potatoes
and string beans.