You can smell his cheap soap <br />In the hallway when he <br />Leaves the building. <br />He is the man next door to me. <br />For two hours before departure <br />To some loud bar <br />Where blondes cackle, waving their hair <br />Into faces of men like him <br />He blares the sound <br />Of eighties folk bands <br />And runs Swarfega or <br />Some other grease <br />Through his anachronistic hairs. <br />He has had a life. <br />His swollen belly tells the story <br />Of a broken marriage. <br />He is trying to rebuild his <br />Lost days of youth. <br />On the underside of his winkle-picker boots <br />Clicking tacked metal bits <br />Alert wary females on the street ahead <br />Of the coming of a God. <br />A force in a squeaking, patent leather, <br />Puffing jacket. <br />He is the enigma called <br />My neighbour. <br />He leaves on Friday night <br />Reeking of bad-taste toiletries. <br />He lives a cliché from then <br />Until Sunday, <br />When he returns to his workplace. <br />He tells the boys of all his <br />Phantom conquests, <br />The nightstalking tigresses <br />That flung him from one side <br />Of his tiny bedsitter to the other <br />In untamed passion, <br />Though strangely, each night, <br />I watch him return, <br />Alone.<br /><br />Sonja Broderick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/neighbour/
