The Nakedness of Strangers

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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