I didn't understand schadenfreude until some fucker
parked in my spot. I took a folding footstool from
the laundry room, set it up on the porch and sat on it,
leaning my back into the vinyl siding, to watch.
I secretly hoped the owner of the grey Jeep Patriot
would come out while the towing was in progress,
so there could be conflict between us, an exchange
of shock and profanities, through which I could sit on my
footstool pedestal with the law on my side, yelling in
verisimilitudes, a big stick in my hand for some reason.
They took over an hour to arrive on an evening in August,
and the back of my knees got sticky and I got three or four
mosquito bites. I considered going inside, missing it. But only
for a moment because it wasn’t really about getting my spot back.
I almost did miss it, when I went inside to eat a peach.
I came back out, and someone was hooking the Jeep
to a metallic truck bed. It took only a few minutes.
A man I would never meet doing his work in silence.
He pulled out of the driveway like the unclogging of a drain.
My anger fell through in big, heavy globs.