Derrick Medina has never paid for a haircut because his grandmother is his beautician. His recent poetry can be
found in the Roan Press anthology Visions of Joanna Newsom. Stalk him at derrickmedina.com.
I have been watching this man in his underwear pace past his living room window for fifteen minutes. He wears briefs. He’s bald, built like a bear. He’s on the phone. I like to think he’s fighting with his ex over possessions from the way he tosses DVDs into boxes as though they are Frisbees. He likes to rub his stomach. He
punctuates statements with his finger, and I imagine times I’ve used body language when no one’s watching.
I like this man because he’s double my size and he’s nearly naked and he clomps around like weights are strapped to his ankles. He’s probably never considered blinds or even a panel curtain, not that he’s an exhibitionist. He’s take it or leave it. That’s what he said, if I can read lips anyway.
My blinds are always closed. Sunshine illuminates the dust on everything and dim lighting feels easy on my eyes. A magazine article said that we need fifteen minutes of sunlight a day to maintain a good mood, which explains why I’m sad. This man is pale; I doubt he gets sufficient sun.
The box of DVDs fell onto the floor. He hung up. His whole face is red, his bald head, eyes. He’s sobbing, holding his gut. I want to hug him. I should have never stopped walking. He looks out, wipes his jaw. He sees me. No. His reflection.