The Voyeur Leaves
by john e © 2004

The guy across the street
is looking at me looking at you.
Once in a while his face is hidden
by a rushing umbrella.
As we talk I think of our talk last night,
how I looked at you, and how you
watched me looking at you.
Wisps from sewercaps filter through
your face and words, words from last night,
the guy, THE WORDS.
After a while last night
I only heard them as sounds,
inaudible wisps winding through
the words.  The guy
across the street has left. My life
is a mist of rain poured over steam,
watched from an overcoat.
You hiss THE WORDS in a different hue,
a fat color of noon where all grows,
no matter what, into completion.
Myself too, I have no choice.