My neighbor, the hoarder, currently has three clocks on her mantel
separated by a stack of books, a ballerina figurine, and a kitchen pan.
A giant orange kimono hangs on the wall above.
Her desk, which is also her table and home to bowls filled with unknown substances,
various articles of clothing, and an old-timey handheld telescope,
sits behind her couch. I think there is a couch there, among
overgrown ferns, half-assembled shelving units,
one of possibly two or three cats,
lamps, blankets, decorative tins, empty booze bottles, and collectible plates.
In her yard, 38 unique plant holders hold just dirt and the dry brown
remnants of last year's garden.
One of the plant holders is a bedpan.
Two are shaped like chickens, with holes in their backs
where a plant should grow.
The first leans precariously on a compost pile, resting its head on the tarp-covered grill, while the other
sits on a cinder block, weedy grass growing around her like a nest.