Phenomenal/Ordinary

I have seen that phenomenal woman through a night window and yes she is both tired and beautiful and I can be both her and that man last November walking in the rain. It was a Saturday and the kitchen lights were on, people were in the living room. She was wearing red, standing in the doorway of amber dinning room light. It was like sneaking into a drive-in movie and while it was so clear and you could see their lips move, still you could never hear what they say and yet I could tell it was a polite conversation, one held in a kitchen in formal wear. And in the upstairs, in those private spaces in this mansion on the corner of Wave and Pilacitos she dances alone, the skin screaming release from it’s cottony enclosure, sometimes staccato, sometimes a sort of flow, sometimes barely moving at all, like the fluttering of closed eyes, like that bending forward, head down crown rudely pressing through, like a waterfall, a thin membrane between this and the many worlds where beauty brushes silently passed the open window, Saturday night scents of stale beer and Lysol drifting through.