Care

I was three feet from my front door,

my key pinched between my thumb

and index finger.

I heard my name, carried accross the street,

“Chris!”

I sighed, feeling trapped.

“What?” I shouted over my sholder.

I had nearly made it, five more seconds

and I would have disappeared into the cool

quiet of my front room.

Instead I was about to talk with my neighbor,

who would almost certainly steal

the remainder of my Friday

complaining about the drug users

next door, and I didn’t care.

They hadn’t bugged me in years,

and it was Friday and I wanted a beer;

it was just inside, and I was not.

“Man, that ain’t polite,”

He said, upset at my attitude.

I still didn’t care.

It was Friday, and I wanted one of my beers,

cold and inside my house.

He proceeded to inform me that some out-of-towners

might park on my side of the street.

I still didn’t care.

I promised him that it wouldn’t be an issue,

he muttered that I had been gruff

as I turned the key in the door

and slipped inside.

I drank a beer while standing next to my sink;

it was good,

and I just didn’t care.