Neighbor

My neighbor and I have coffee. Together, but on our separate porches. An introvert's dream. Today, it is a foggy, misty morning. He coughs, I sip. His keys jangle as he sits in his chair while he simultaneously shuffles his feet, his shoes squeaking on the wet wood. And, I read about ancient cave paintings in Paris writing feverishly in the margins about human existence.       

We do this dance. He and I. Every. Day. Yet, we do not speak. Does he notice me? As Walt Whitman once wondered in my favorite poem "To You," does he "desire to speak to me," ? Do I, too, make noises that I am unaware of that become apart of his morning song? 

It's a curious concept. Neighbors. It implies a familiarity, a kinship, yet we have never spoken a single word. But, we have our coffee every morning. Maybe that silence is in itself kinship.