The lady down the road
Lives on her own, but not quite.
The neighbourhood kids visit,
Some throw stones on her roof,
Put things through the mail slot
On her door, the other one out front.
Others visit to read her books
And share her music, talk stuff.
Some do both, and while you or I
Mightn't be able to work that out,
She has, and just goes on living,
Known as the lady down the road.
If I knew her name, that might be different,
It might change enough for a lot to change,
But I don't, and neither she nor any kid
Has ever told me what it is.
I haven't told her mine, either,
So perhaps, to her,
I'm the man up the road,
Who lives on his own but not quite,
Because although the neighbourhood kids
Don't visit, to toss stones or share,
I get all my food delivered,
Meals, groceries, everything I buy online,
So that there's always a new face,
Sometimes a familiar one,
Although the lady down the road
And this man up the same road,
We've never met,
And as far as I've found out,
Nobody delivers to her at all.
Except stones on the roof
And stuff through her mail slots,
(Who has two?),
So I'm happy to miss out on that.