Piece of a Missing Puzzle

My eyes just aren’t big enough.

Not that they don’t see far,

Not that they ignore what’s near,

But that there’s just too much to see.

For instance, the scribbles in my calendar,

That used to be calligraphy,

Content in praise and fueled by time,

Was replaced by caustic scribbles,

That spell words I want to read forever.

If I don’t grow an inch every year,

Then my skin pulls tight overweary bones,

My heart pounds against too-small ribs,

And I cry until I’m small enough to fit again,

With no progress made at all.

The cusp of summer and fall is my favourite,

As I too shed my old skin.

It’s therapeutic.

But my neighbour thinks that all of the leaves,

Clutter up his yard.

Orange is his least favourite colour,

And fall reminds him of the days when his kids were at home.

He shuts the blinds and doesn’t want to see.

While the lady across the road,

Opens her window and smells the air,

Content in the emptiness of her house.

I am never happy with a 99%,

But that doesn’t mean everyone’s like me.

Some write off that 1% as unattainable and stay the same.

Others wish they had gotten lower,

So people would stop trying to look over their shoulder.

A man who has been taught his entire life to climb,

Whose ancestors started at the bottom of the mountain,

Reached the top before those who started yesterday.

If he was me, he would race to the bottom and start again.

If he was my neighbour, he would lament those who couldn't make it.

If he was the lady across the way, he might revel in their failure.

I can knock on my neighbour's door,

But he doesn't have to answer.

Not for me, or anyone.

The truth is lonely but true.

Everyone has a light switch,

And while some refuse to touch it in the name of preservation,

Others find new colours to decorate their room.

I can't change my neighbour,

But I sure can change me.

Some go forward, some go back,

I guess that's how it's meant to be.