The Sun Eater

I do not understand
my neighbor,
the sun eater;

every morning at eight
or nine, in spring, summer,
autumn, and winter,

he spends an hour
with no shirt on
and short shorts

in the rays
if there is shine,
doing various gyrations,

rotations, stretches,
and exercises and walks
around on the sand

of his vegetable garden;
over the summer,
he spent much longer hours

on activities and chores,
sawing bamboo canes,
digging up trenches and pits,

and putting the sawed
bamboo in the sand,
and then he left everything

for a while
and eventually
buried it all up;

he got a very
deep tan that summer,
and in the winter,

he is still tanned;
he appears fit,
and he appears healthy;

he is youngish
but not young,
and sometimes

in the house,
he shouts in the day
or in the night,

and he plays
with his children;
I do not talk to him,

and he does not talk
to me, though twice
over the past four years,

he did say,
“good afternoon”;
a quiet man,

a methodical man,
an emotional man,
a fatherly man;

I do not understand
my neighbor,
the sun eater.

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