On The Balcony

You sit on the cement floor, everything here is cement. You look across the way, they look back at you. You look down and see tops of flat heads. You hear their conversations. They are not aware you are listening. Guys call guys names. Girls call girls names. Girls call guys jerks, guys call girls sluts. A boy plays guitar across the way and a girl sits beside him and listens. You're rump aches on the hard cement as you watch through the cracks in your balcony railing. You perspire in the thick heat even though you sit up high. Even three stories above there is no breeze, no stirring of the wind. Only during the storms. You sit with the light on and the bugs gather and crawl. You turn the light off, sit in the dark. People can't see you anymore. They don't know where the cat-call is coming from, they look around and up but don't see you. You are hidden in the shadows. They don't know where the water balloons are falling from. They don't know the face of their enemy on the walkway. You watch them loose patience. You watch them make the wrong move. You watch the dumb. Your roommates try to scare you. They bang on the window. You turn around and they moon you. You turn away and laugh then think about how you should have gotten their white asses on film. Your hair smells stale, and unwashed even though you cleaned it this morning. You listen to the boy's guitar. It's peaceful. He is not showing off. He is in the music. You close your eyes. You're in it too.