He knows upstairs apartment two stop signs from the right,
He knows Malibu and pineapple juice.
He knows size 7 and black silk on the floor.
He doesn’t know the yellow mug is for hot tea
He doesn’t know patio glass in the backyard.
And he doesn’t care to.
He’s learned with his eyes closed in dim lighting , whispers between two strangers lingering in familiar ways- In the I remember your high school bed room way, not in the say hello to you in the parking lot way.
He knows enough to keep his gaze forward unit no one’s looking.
He knows enough for it to hurt us both when he pretends he doesn’t.
