I Feel The Neighborhood

I feel the neighborhood. It is cozy, even though some visitors have called it a slum and will never come back to see me in my home. Sad wet laundry falls over peeling yellow porches, pigeons poop from the clothesline towers, but I feel the neighborhood as cozy and loving when I rise early and it is still dark and I look out the window and see lights on and TV's flickering like bug-zappers. I toss the ball for my brown dog in the black night. She runs with the tennis ball in her mouth, and suddenly squats, diagonally lady-like, to pee. I come in and warm the teapot and turn on my computer. The genie box is my robot friend, I can write letters to one hundred and fifty people, some who don't know me well and might be scared of me, but who is afraid of a letter? The computer is less scary than I am, for I am a hairy big-faced loud-laughing big-headed burping fragrant ringletted refuse-to-be-indoctrinated woman.