The man next door in the car,
not speaking in a way of laughter,
just speaking, to his wife.
He notices, I realise who he is,
what kind of man he is.
He knows I know what kind he is,
without even knowing him.
The lights turn green,
his face boiling in the windows doubles reflection,
I laugh because his insecurities,
were only ever once seen by me.
Rebecca Stansfield
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-man-37/
