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Apartment

Beneath the prying rays of awkwardly inquisitive moon

We huddle in this apartment building, each of us in the kitchen

Of our apartments, bathed in both electric and candle light, sitting

At the kitchen table, translating Paul Verlaine, pausing at

The line, "Il pleure dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la ville….”

“It rains in my heart”; “It’s raining in my heart”;

“There’s this rain in my heart…” pausing, dreaming, glancing up

At the blinds where the moonlight tries to pry open the slats

To ask why in the twenty odd years we’ve all lived in

This building not one of us has exchanged anything more than

“Hello” or “How are you?” or just “Hi,” not one word about

Verlaine or Symbolism or even Hendrix, carrying on

With our lives, happy with our lives, alone and safe from

Everything but the awkwardly inquisitive, fictional moonlight.