A man lives across the hall from me,
alone.
He gets three different newspapers delivered
every morning.
I come home and look up to see his blinds,
always open.

His wife left him almost a year ago.
She discovered he wrote letters to women,
asked them to defecate in plastic containers,
paid them to send it
Priority Mail.

Hurt, confused, enraged;
you could hear her screaming across the hall.
He didn’t say a word,
that I could hear.
I saw her leaving two days later.
I didn’t look her in the eye.

Before she left,
out of shame and spite,
she told the whole building.
Anyone who would listen.
I imagined how people would respond to her,
what kind of support and understanding
might be offered.
But I avoided making eye contact.

Alone in his apartment, he exists mostly
in our imaginations.
He comes and goes and never looks anyone
in the eye.
He knows.
Everyone knows.
But no one ever says a word.
People have feelings-
they need to be protected.