Outside someone else’s window the neighbour’s wife,
in breakfast-crusted robe and last year’s Christmas present
slippers
steps out onto the balcony,
dragging
the laundry basket full, heaping, overflowing. She can
barely
lift it to the railing where it tips,
dumping
raining through the air
all her husband’s dirty laundry. As it
flutters
to the street below, amongst shirts and socks and boxer shorts
I see. I understand.
She’s not the type to wear
a leopard print thong.
Aly Writes 