Poetry by Anne Starling

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Malcontent

We have neighbors next door now, after having none except, when we first lived here, the renter opposite with Tourette’s who used to shout vile things at his wife, both standing in their front driveway. My husband despised that man until I told him don’t, because he had an affliction so couldn’t help it. Those two moved, fortunately, as I was never sure about the Tourette’s. Anyway, the new ones next to us make noise as well, not shouting but building noise, especially roofing, and lots of lawn upkeep: think leaf blower. There’s no more bullfrog-mating ruckus in summer because their pool gets cleaned; there’s pool party noise instead. Some people are not complainers, I’m aware, though I can’t help having preferences or making observations. I don’t shout at anyone; I just like to imagine how much better things could be. It’s important to stay aspirational. My favorite weather is perfect weather. A little chill in fall, soupcon of warmth come spring, bright blue skies always—that saturated hue most often found in children’s drawings. But life brings rain and snow and sleet, depending.  You have to let it go.  It isn’t death that worries me, so much as what comes after. When I said once I didn’t want to be a) buried or b) cremated and scattered, a friend quipped “Well, there isn’t much we can do with you, then, is there?”


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Anne Starling was born in California and now lives in Florida. She has operated a used bookstore and done social work for a living. Her work has appeared in Rattle, The Southern Review, Carolina Quarterly, and Tahoma Literary Review, among other fine journals.