Soon We Will be Good Friends, I Think

Below a starburst transom of sturdy weeds I rest, looking upward.
Within the heavy stone touching the back of my head
your grip convenes momentarily, almost on a whim,
so that the tangle of my hair –
pretending itself a pillow –
is like the backs of the houses I see before me,
exposed and empty.
Years away, yet, from our formal introduction,
this moment is strangely a future respite from your chorus of forbearance
which never quite sings.
With the din of your detritus pitilessly on its way to inter me,
I have only soon to hear the boredom of your unchanged note –
over and over – and will even someday beg you to play it
for a new set of ears, returning the gossip and Schadenfreude of your slaves carefully to your door, sworn enemies.
My father, whistling Stormy Weather in the driveway,
is only a few feet away in those sturdy weeds, dirty and green.
Sturdy, like you –
the clutch of your malice impossible to loosen once known.
And though I don’t yet know you, we have met peripherally this day.
Soon we will be good friends, I think.
I know.