Outside someone else’s window the neighbour’s wife,
in breakfast-crusted robe and last year’s Christmas present
steps out onto the balcony,
the laundry basket full, heaping, overflowing. She can
lift it to the railing where it tips,
raining through the air
all her husband’s dirty laundry. As it
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.