Outside my window,
between dusty slats,
I saw him tap on the other's door.
I saw him breathe flare-nasaled
and pound three times more.
Door opened. They'd
never met before:
“What? What's going on?”
“Are YOU smoking pot?”
Of course he was; he had daily times:
once, mid-morning, for writing;
once, mid-evening, to unwind.
“I'm sorry, who are you?”
“I live upstairs.”
“Oh God, so you're the one—”
“The one?” “Who clearly needs
vegetables, fiber, something fresh.
I almost cry when you take
those craps. I wretch.”
And oh, man! He knew that
was true; all our bathroom fans
sharing one common vent. we'd hear
his flush; sometimes, we'd both
step outside. But he said
it.
And then the words
were pointless.
I watched them
moving closer, outside:
turning bright red,
and thick-
veined, and
sharp-eyed.
Trading back-forth
breaths
in one hot space,
catching stray
spit-flicks from
each others' tongues.
So ripe for an
outburst; a wink
or— a kiss.
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