I used to watch
people in the complex
across the alley fucking
until one would rise,
genitals hanging,
& close the curtains—-
I’d miss them,
their intimacy
reminding me
of a time when I, too,
was loved. Is the artist,
myself as a voyeur,
the art? Or
is it this life
I watch
habitually
in my heartless
boredom? Praying
for their joy’s downfall,
to meet the same fate
as I, when I turn off
the lamplight & put down
my pen. I trashed
my bed, only sleeping in a hard,
wooden-backed chair,
facing away from the lovers—-
distant, our joined life,
yet close enough to savor:
I have nothing else.

One of them bought flowers
for the other—-placed them
in a vase, made love
after the gift was given:
it was the most beautiful,
tender moment,
but they never looked at them again,
they just sat there
on their small kitchen table,
they sat there until they wilted.
I didn’t see them throw them away,
but one day,
they were gone.