Stalker’s Ghazal
I listen through thin drywall.
You're next door with the hair dryer.
Keeping mystery without which
your vital facts would seem dry.
Hot night air billows the curtains as I kneel
waiting, throat closing, mouth drier.
I yearn to reach for you,
sand paper kisses leaving your flesh dry.
Yesterday, at the laundry,
I saw you putting clothes in the dryer.
Do you see me reflected
in shop windows? Not the fountain, dry.
Do I scare you?
My wit sardonic, humor dry.
You have no idea that I exist
cuts to the quick, but I'm fine, wound's dry.
All these chance meetings, yet
Kathryn's sex life is all the drier.
