outside my window.
He lives next door.
She lives down the street.
The other lives two streets down.
Her best friend is from another street.
His cousin is from out of town.
Old friends come together unaware
of the burgeoning tension between them.
Fast friends quick to become long lovers,
flip a coin and take a guess.
Who’s the romantic?
Who’s the rapist?
One or the other,
all or nothing till the end.
Her tone of voice is the martyr.
His words hint at a new found sexuality.
Laugh, curse, and make up lies.
Hearing their rituals outside the window.
I see commercial colored fantasies
of youthful orgies on fresh fruit
and unpolluted swims at the
local watering hole.
There is no one left alive
to remember such antiquities.
Was their ever?
Catch the sun.
Take it down.
Pass it around.
The cup of tomorrow has turned over.
Drink today while the going is good.
They’ll know each other before the end.