The lady next door is dead.
The news came to me second hand,
passed down from some sweaty boy.
A total stranger paid off with a full tank 
to load his beat up truck down heavy
with the leftovers of her life. 
I didn’t ask how it happened 
or if there’d be a service 
with some small town congregation
telling sweet stories of the dearly departed
or envisioning her heavenly home
on the streets paved with gold. 
I didn’t ask because that boy
wouldn’t know no how 

and because I flat-out know better.
Cause somewhere on the breeze
her spirit cussed at me,
hit like like the sharp echo
of a hard hearted fist on my screen door
a bony reminder from beyond the grave
to mind my own goddamned business.