Hal the Neighbor

Workers come to repair exterior steps,
siding, walkways, or deliver topsoil and mulch
for the new garden, and like a magnet to true
North, he is drawn. A moth to the flame of
something happening on the block. The
neighbor moseys over, hands pocketed,
a slight limp rocking his torso, he gabs
with the workers. Asks a couple questions,
probing for gossip, then launches into a
litany of advice, reminisces, truisms
laying out what he believes is wisdom
aged and earned. “I remember,” he says,
“back in ’72 . . .” Just then his wife comes up,
slips her arm through his, smiles warmly,
and says, “Hal, come on home and let
these nice men work.” He blushes, grins
awkwardly, waves and turns away as she
whispers something in his ear about lunch
or a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.
The men glance at each other knowingly,
turn their full attention to their work,
storing up the day’s moments in their hearts,
thinking about when they will all be Hals.