I know I just posted a poem, but here's a sonnet that I wrote fairly recently.
Our Neighbor, Don
Our Neighbor, Don, could talk about the earth
as if the only problem was the weather,
and though he scarcely sends two thoughts together
on their way to subtle, aged truths,
Our Neighbor, Don, could talk about the worth
of simple things, as if there's nothing better
than sitting out on porches, just together,
forgetting - or not knowing - things uncouth.
I hoped I would not see him when I found
a certain word upon the wall we shared.
Some prophet scrawled his piece, and unprepared,
I tried to hide the things that he unwound:
Apathy and malice, wanton pride,
but mostly that these, too, were mine to hide.