WATER
Fred Leebron

She touches his hair by the river.
     I am in our apartment, working. Her hand moves down his back.
     I empty the trash and unclog the kitchen sink. His former girlfriends have turned into lesbians.
     I take the key to his apartment, which he gave me so I could water his plants during the summer. He bends his kissing face to hers.
     I walk over to his apartment, just two blocks away. Their legs dangle in the river.
     I unlock the door and bolt it behind me. The room smells of feet and stale ashtrays.
     In the kitchen is a gas stove. I turn it on without lighting it.
     Down by the river is a flock of geese, which they admire while holding hands.
     Soon he will take her back to his apartment. Soon they will lie there, readying cigarettes.
     I relock the apartment and slip into the street. The air smells of autumn, burnt. In the sky, birds are leading each other south.
     I know there is nothing left between us, that she looks at me each morning as if I were interrupting her life.