a cyril wong poem

THE NEIGHBOUR

Less than I had imagined, my neighbour
was beneath me, urging deeper into me,

that smile he would flash from his window
to set off my lust like a random spark

was frozen now between a moan
and an apology, as if he were sorry

for his need, for boredom that nudged us
past reservation to meet like this:

visions grazing, bodies tensing
for a final release; my mouth filling

with the load of his relief, my own need
cooling in spurts, catching in the hair

on his chest. Then the swabs of tissue.
Then the awkward shuffle to the door

and that smile again as he closed it
behind me. Back in our own homes,

we catch each other’s eyes
from our windows once more.

He does a little dance with his hips
and both hands in the air, laughing

without a sound, as if to dispel
any newfound strangeness between us.

I return a smile, even as I sense
its heaviness upon my face, and signal

to my laptop on the table, meaning
to say, I think I will work now,

meaning I would write a poem
about this. He seems to understand.

Still smiling, he bends to turn on
his television, then walks to his couch,

tossing me a last look before he falls
out of view, and I compose my first line.