The Witness of the Event at House № 9

She’s at the café window, coffee mug in hand
nose pressed against the sun-warmed glass
across the street, a young man steps into view
out of an Uber, now sliding away.

His ironed shirt, his fresh haircut
everything on him speaks intention
except for his feet; queasy
and as willing as a flat tyre.

He checks a note, tucks it away
walks slowly to the porch at № 9
he’s at the door
standing like a soldier
at the wrong war
without a gun.

He lifts a hand
pauses, pulls it back
then lifts the hand
this pause is longer.

He pulls it back
and again and again
and again, it goes down
not knocking.
She scurries from her window seat
and gets back just as fast
her coffee mug refilled.

He’s at the door still
a kid screeches on the street
her eyes dart but are quickly back.

Back on our friend
tapping on his thighs
pacing behind the welcome mat.

He spurs forward on the mat
shoulders slightly up
bearing squarely at the door
he raises his hand
he brings it down
this time
still not knocking.

He steps aside, puts his
hands on the wall, bows his face
she sees him reach for his pants
he pulls something out
shuffles to a porch post
and leans, blocked from sight.

After two minutes, maybe more
a car rolls into view, to a halt
he puts his phone back in his pants
scampers to the black sedan
as of a void between the thighs.

He’s in. The Uber leaves.

She’s sitting there
clenching an empty mug
mouth slightly agape
muttering, “what the fu**?”.