Naked

An introspective sonnet on a common curiosity.

Naked

The walk from parking lot to apartment
is more interesting at night. My eyes drawn
like moths, helplessly, towards incandescent
light seeping through curtains, muted, but on.
Do they know their blinds are revealing
futons, clocks, dusty lampshades and lounge pants;
do they crave attention, or am I imposing
on things kept sacred—shattering the balance?

It’s been two weeks since 2-C has moved in,
and still hasn’t found the need to keep
fluttering eyes out and push feet to ascend.
I’m shocked his girlfriend is able to sleep
at night. Doesn’t she feel exposed sitting there—
an exhibitionist, fully clothed?