The man across the street: his Christmas tree’s

still in the upstairs window, every night:

hypnotic neon color-changing lights

still glowing, and it’s April seventeenth.

.

Should I like maybe cross the street and see?

Knock on his door, and ask if he’s alright

— his door, whereon is hung a gold and white

and baubled long-outdated Christmas wreath?

.

I’m scared to, though. We haven’t spoken once

in six whole years. His dogs are scary too.

I’ve only heard him yelling at his son(s)

(which to be fair’s a thing I also do).

But why the tree, when Christmastime is done?

Angry mysterious man, what’s up with you?