Out my window, 4:30AM, I see
a man at his window, his back
to the world, head lopped
by the top of his sill, sitting
at a table with the light on,
unmoving, his eyes, apparently,
keeping a watch over the void
of his white wall. Why’s he there,
I wonder, finding no good reason
to be at the window at this hour.
Of course, I’m at the window
at this hour. Naked, even.
Though I’m just going to the bathroom.
Well maybe he’s just going
to the bathroom, I think.
Though why sit in the chair
then, why blare the light
full blast, why sit motionless
before the meaningless puzzle
of his desolate interior design?
Is he bettering himself, preparing
for whatever state-of-the art onslaughts
the new world will happen
to bring? And how does one prepare
to meet the world one does not know?
Is he just a shitty sleeper?
Sick of it all? And am I
creepy, standing there,
wrestling his life around my kitchen?
It’s none of my business, but not much is.
I stand, wondering if he'll sense me,
but he doesn’t move. I lose
the battle and go back to bed.
Julia asks where I’ve been. The bathroom,
I say, which is true the same way
that man was only in his chair.