The man next door in the car, <br />not speaking in a way of laughter, <br />just speaking, to his wife. <br /> <br />He notices, I realise who he is, <br />what kind of man he is. <br />He knows I know what kind he is, <br />without even knowing him. <br /> <br />The lights turn green, <br />his face boiling in the windows doubles reflection, <br />I laugh because his insecurities, <br />were only ever once seen by me.<br /><br />Rebecca Stansfield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-man-37/
