I hop up onto my bathtub’s rim

peep through the exhaust fan slats into the apartment

across an abyss-like drop between our buildings
He’s leaning (topless) against a fridge in board-shorts

fondling the long, dark strip of down-like gut-fuzz,

his other hand thumb-surfing airwaves via remote control

(TV the length of outstretched arms catching his sports)
Those walls without pictures or paintings, no ornaments

but for a pair of swimming goggles pendent off

a nail above his kitchen nook
If peering like me he’d see I’ve decorated my walls:

two framed photos of Ferraris, a pastel drawing

I bought off a footpath artist: Elvis pointing & winking

out of a kangaroo’s pouch
& my favourite illustration: a penguin holding a fat cigar

on an iceberg afloat an expansive sea, its caption reads:

              Eh, anyone got a light for me?