I catch my neighbor
slick-fisted and popeyed,
baring down hard,
shoulder shaking like a
boxer working a speed
bag, him working himself.
Even through fifteen feet
of dark, two glass panes,
I can see him blush—cheeks’
capillaries engorged, as he
becomes aware of me
aware of him.
His head drops away suddenly,
isolating me with another brunette
and her orgasm face reflected
by the polarized coat of my window;
a close-up shot of curled lips
glazed in white: the money shot.
The next scene of the triple X
plays out impotently, arousing no
one now, so I turn off my TV.
Assess my own shame and
situation, then add “Buy Curtains”
to tomorrow’s To Do list.
(2004)
