Daniel has vanished. In early July he moved into the small gray and green house across the lane, which had belonged to the poet Amy Clampitt. In her memory, her late husband established a fund, in the mid 1990s, to sponsor a nominated poet to work in it for six months or a year.
Daniel is middle-aged, with dark hair and a short white beard. He's from South Carolina, he may have said near Myrtle Beach. I don't remember anything much, including his last name, because I thought I'd have all summer to get to know him. It's not Danielpour or Hasselhoff, but one of those types. Hollenbeck maybe. He was nominated for this residency by the previous poet.
His plan was to first read The Brothers Karamazov. His front door was always halfway open, and there was a lamp near it. I imagined him reading, and promised myself to get back to that book someday. I looked forward to hearing what he thought. I considered dropping a favorite poem at his door, but decided it was pushy.
Our most substantive interaction was on garbage day during a power outtage, when I couldn't get the garage door open and asked him if we could dump our garbage in his cans. He was very nice about it. His car was always in front of his garage, with a sun paper on it.
Friday he was gone. No car and the door was closed. I thought he'd taken a little trip, or perhaps gone home to see his family briefly. He looked like a family man.
The giveaway was when two cleaners showed up the next day. Since then, the house has been still. Where'd he go? Did he need help? I would have helped. Like, what a great thing to live near a poet. Did he finish the book? Decide he couldn't write poetry?
I have to stop doing this and look him up. Hope I don't find him because I'll be tempted to call, and that won't do.
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