Every now and then, during my late-night
tussle with rhyme and metre, I glance up
at the top flat opposite, wondering whether
its male occupant, silhouetted and backlit,
is thinking, each time he raises his head
and seems to gaze back, how exciting
it is to overlook on the ground floor
opposite an insomniac poet constantly
licking his stanzas into shape, and maybe
even including him in his latest poem.
Much more likely he is totally engrossed
in a detective novel by Ian Rankin
or Donna Leon. Imagining which I down
tools and instead head for the sitting-room
with a cappuccino, confident that getting
stuck into a good whodunnit will more
effectively establish us as kindred spirits.
At which point, seemingly totally oblivious
to my presence, the man opposite rises
and, leaving his room, turns out the light.
