a long boring description of where i live

We rent a house on a farm        
which covers a hundred and forever acres        
and is split amongst six separate homes.        
We have five neighbors immediately, then none.        
       
The old man, Joe, who owns the joint        
is deep Pennsylvania blood. The deepest.        
His family bought the land from the states namesake.        
All this land is stuff from fourth grade American Studies        
and most certainly came from fucked over Injuns.        
Joe lives in the big house about a half mile over        
raising the cows that draw the large tanker trucks in        
a few times a month. Joe has one eye.        
We are cool with Joe, he don't mind no never minds        
as long as the rent's on time. Or close.        
       
Our side of the property has three buildings.        
Two of them are houses, the other a renovated barn, turn-       
ed apartment building with three units. We have no idea        
who lives on the far side, only ever see the car.        
In the middle one lives the old miserable fag, forget        
his name. Think he has identity issues, or doesn't know        
that no one cares about who fakes, fucks, or fags with        
who these days. Or at least that we don't.        
He has an old dog that borrowed its last legs        
years ago, but forgot. My dog is young and dumb        
and friendly enough to hurt that old dog, so one hundred        
percent of me and the old pricks correspondence is me        
making sure that my dog stays away from his. I don't let him    
hate me but he wants to. My ol' lady wants to bitch slap him.  
He won't let her ride his horse.        
       
Above him, and closer is the little redneck.        
His name is Mark, he's five foot five on a tall day.        
We are tentatively cool with Mark, but with a shaky past.        
He believes in conspiracy theory now that a black man is in        
the king cobra's clothing. Would bother me if we talked politics        
but we don't, and see eye to eye on marijuana. Enough for us.        
He likes guns, and raising voices, and making threats when        
the Old Man of Us wasn't around. He's a lot more friendly now.        
       
Across the driveway and closest to us is the second to oldest        
house in our cluster. It used to have neighbors we were close with,        
as they had a little boy, the same age as the oldest of our two        
boys. Things ended on a stressed note when they moved out        
last year. That's when lady cop moved in. She is a probation        
officer, working in the county that we grew up in. She has two        
dogs, Reggie and Dexter, who run my dog to slumber. I dig her        
dogs. She can't be named as I don't believe in fiction, and the        
irony of us living next to a cop is too much to lay down          
into these magnetic confessions, even if this is hypothetical,        
added for dramatic flare. She is fucking a fella with a bike rack        
on top of his bungee cord, who drives a white water rapid,        
while drinking Mountain Dew. Dude is fucking extreme.        
We do us, she does her. All is cautiously cool.        
       
We live on the oldest farm house, sitting alone, overlooking        
the forever acres behind us. We can pretend that we don't        
have neighbors, usually. We spend most of our time on the porch        
playing life the best we can. The porch has a table on it        
that has a circle of stones that mean something to each of us        
and mean more together. Kids got an easel, dogs got a worn spot        
in the sun, we have crates of colored pencils, beads and wires,        
baubles and toys. The porch is a pulse of disciplined play,        
drinks too much, and takes an awfully long time to say nothing.