"What goes on here?"
I ask the Man next door.
"Where — here?
Nothing…nothing goes on here.
Same as goes on there."
He points to my house.
(Oh, I hope not!)
"Nope, nothing goes on here, but —
I think things do go on
(eyes dart right)
there."

"What goes on here?"
I ask of the Bobbed Blonde
who answers my knock, "What goes on in here?"
"Where — here?
Nothing…nothing goes on here.
Why are you asking?"
I shrug. "Something to talk about,
maybe to write about."
"Write about; you can't write about me!
Write about them."
(eyes cut diagonally across the street)
"Nothing goes on here, but
plenty goes on there!"
I follow those eyes, those
worried,
secretive eyes
and find my target
already waiting
by the gate.

"What goes on here?"
I ask this Common Couple.
"Where — here?
Nothing…nothing goes on here,
ever."
"Hmmmm," I say. "Something,
some thing must go on here."
"No…no thing ever goes on here.
What makes you think
something
goes on in here?"
"Hmmm,"
I say again.
"Your garbage bags
are clear
and mine,
mine are green
as are Mister Black's
and Missus White's."
"So?
I don't steal them
from my office
if that's what you're implying."

"I'm not implying, I'm grasping
grasping for a thing
that goes on in here
or there
or anywhere."

"Please leave, now."
Normal Normans; they are so polite,
these fearful souls.

I know that things
do go on
on this very street:
babies come
cars change
an ambulance stops
Fed Ex delivers
and on occasion
a Husband
vanishes only to reappear
in the form of Mrs. Brown's
pool boy, well…I think
it's him,
but I
was never one for gossip.

What goes on
out there
goes
on
'n on 'n on.


© P. Gomes 2003