Walls

Thank God we don’t live in a house like that,
you say as we drive past the squatters.
Imagine what we have to do just to make love,

there being no room, no walls
dividing people. And hearing you,
I picture us poor, horny, pressed together

by a baby and perhaps a sick father,
our house nothing but a small cube
with very little room for lust or affection.

Perhaps it is night and the two of us
itch to get going under the blanket, you lifting
my skirt, me feeling in the dark for your belt.

Perhaps it is night and we can do it
on the floor, careful not to set the house on fire
as if we were two sticks rubbing together.

We can probably hide behind a hanging blanket,
you will probably drink the sound of my voice
with your kisses. Like prey, we have

to learn to be invisible, blending in
with the color of cabinets and boxes,
hoping the baby will not cry as we go at it,

hoping your father will go on
coughing his way across dreams.
This is probably how we will make love

in a house like that – pretending the world
has closed its eyes on us
as we open ourselves to each other.

Yes, thank God, our house has space enough
to get lost in. Why, even birds will drop
flying the gaping distance between our rooms.