We greet each other using Christian names
and pass the time of day, though little more.
There’s no complaint of children’s rowdy games
and not a word about that banging door;

all in the garden’s lovely. Well, not quite—
three gladioli hardly serve to hide
that bedspring, those old motor tyres from sight
four seasons round. And who could quite abide 

this knicker-buntinged clothesline day by day
and, late at night, departing visitors
who want the world to hear them on their way,
who rev-up engines, double-slam car doors?

Then, when the neighborhood gets back to sleep
there’s always one bright spark on early shift
at six, his valedictory beep-beep
is bloody……well, I’m sure you get my drift.

One irritant we’ve noticed recently
is where a boy stands at the backyard sink
intent to reach the highest he can pee—
his target is the windowledge, we think.

Beware, the go-go area for dogs
demands that you be careful where you put
your feet, and be forewarned that burning logs
will puncture your paintwork with their soot.

This sitting on front doorsteps lowers the tone—
sun-bathing on the pavement’s just not on—
you’d scarcely think that one would be alone
in wondering where dignity has gone.

But now the movers’ men have filled the van,
our house is empty, we’re about to go,
the thought occurs: throughout our three-year span
they never told us we’d annoyed them so.