I see the twitch in the net-curtains again this morning,
the neighbour, unknown, nameless to meet, busies himself
with morning papers, pastries, the steam of the iron is clear
to me now; no more so remote than the long tails alighting
the telephone pole – chattering to themselves several hymns thick,
dowsing the street below with a harmonious clink, a harmonious
Mr. Unknown unfolds the news, unaware.
Not a penchant for watching, more of a hobby of sorts,
politer than stalking, perhaps even talking to his cheeks,
like so many people do when they’re not really
Never to meet him past the bakery stand; even in June when
loaves are at their most swollen, the rye and the blueberry jam
(half and inch thick), like a pleasant curd, a winding curb
children enjoy driving their oxblood mouths around,
pale fingers, all smiles, sticky, sticky; sticky.
Across the road, my nameless venture exposes a tooth,
then a tongue. But rather than the red you’d so come to expect,
that dental room exposes its palatable secret;
as white as his eyes – of course, of course,
blind as anything, clumsy, hungry, human; afraid.
© Eve Redwater 2012