Can’t call him a streaker
because it’s not the seventies
and he’s not in a hurry,
but he is totally naked
walking along the balcony
back to his own apartment
in the middle of the afternoon,
not looking to see if anyone’s watching,
but obviously unconcerned
one way or the other.
By the time it
occurs to me, riding past
on my bicycle, that
the incident is unusual,
he has made it back
to, presumably, his own apartment,
which he enters,
closing the door behind him,
neither quickly nor deliberately,
as if he’s put everything in the wash
or left the shower to borrow
some soap from a neighbor.
Copyright 2014
T. Allen Culpepper
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