The solitary man by the window
At dusk looks out, stares
At the grey concrete wall that hides
His neighbour’s daily routine. Always,
The sound of someone sweeping
Dry leaves and later, smoke rising
Entering the room. Such a small world
That one’s rubbish can easily be another’s,
He thinks, then pauses as the first few
Notes rise from a stranger’s throat.
Behind the wall she stood, her secret pleasures,
Burning, singing, burning and singing.