"The Apartment" [by Joan Biddle]

They live on the street side of the building,
we live on the back side. They hear duets of men

and smoke, we hear birds chirp
and cover a fridge with pictures.

They shave each other’s heads
and take pills, we climb into blankets

and collect fur. He plays the drums,
she charcoals, I pick at the paint

on the walls. They hang
their clothes in the alley. We hang

drapes. We’re usually tipsy
on red wine. They drink two whiskeys

neat. I see a shore
of white skin on her back when she lifts

her arms. I see her wolf eyes and blackberry
lips. I see his skateboard,

a sandpaper tongue. A bell
rings in the afternoon. We lift our heads.

-- Joan Biddle

"Apartment" originally appeared in The Country Dog Review.

Comments

[Robert Schultz]

Deft, delicate ending. Very nice. Thanks.