I’m annoyed by the windows in the house on the opposite shore

of the foaming street below. For hours on end

I peek into what’s cooking at my neighbours’, as they boil the tiny hearts

of waggle tails – that’s what dad called kidneys when we were kids,

in other words when cats vanished and returned

with the next phase of the moon, ears torn.  Not

to me anymore – the windows on the ground floor, there’s a Lupanar, fliers

of women in the letterbox, as grown up as I

could never be, even if I went on my knees

over broken glass from kitchen to bedroom room.

Upstairs a man with a dog’s muzzle, or maybe

a dog with a human face, I never know, lowers

down a glass eye on his fishing rod and peeps at the women below.

I’m annoyed by their windows. They’ve gone over the top with this life

as though they didn’t know you don’t need to at all.