The Neighbor

The house next door was vacant,
For at least fifty years;
No one would rent or buy it,
And it was not demolished--as the story goes--out of superstitious fear.

The grass in the yard,
It is like a jungle retreat;
The wrought iron gate is collapsing,
The tar on the roof drips from the summer heat.

I saw a teen-aged boy, with a sallow complexion,
Standing at the edge of the grounds;
He was entranced by the deteriorating abode,
It seemed as if his interest in the derelict structure knew no bounds.

I admit, I was intrigued by the mousy young man,
As I watched from my second-story peephole;
He stood there, as immobile as a mountain,
And likewise, he emanated a hearty soul.

What peaked my interest,
Was his leather coat and greasy hair;
A cigarette hung from his mouth,
His smirk was so cocky; it was as if he had not a care.

I observed for over an hour,
This testament, I swear is true;
The greaser focused on the air,
And a transparent portal opened and he disappeared from view!

The legend from the house next door,
Was that the father had killed his teen aged son;
The body was never found,
But the people of the neighborhood claimed that they knew what he had done.

But after what I witnessed,
I know that what happened to the teenager was not a father's crime;
The little ass hole,
Had discovered a way to travel through time!