One long block now

from hardware store

from produce stand

from restaurant that just changed hands

A hot and sunny afternoon just after three

Few people tread these back streets at this time —

though up ahead the main drive throngs

with sun-crazed slushee/soda/cocktail-craving folk

it's quiet here

though just a block away

A man comes round the corner

cellphone held up

kiss-close to his face

beautiful, he's saying, that's beautiful

because it's — yes-yes, it's integral

A throbby, knowing voice, practiced sincerity

a tailored fit for where he is,

this semi-gritty semi-artsy neighbourhood,

that kind of smooth-spoke semi-scripted tone

Have quickly moved aslant for distance,

as one does

as one ought

so only as I pass does it come clear —

this calmly smoothly schmoozing guy

grey locks held up in deft man-bun

striding on

is naked! absolutely naked

His narrow back

slanting, angled buttocks, slightly dented

long mobile thighs

recede from view

as his inflected words — awesome! you know it, dude! —

float back

Thin red blanket dangles

from his tanned non-phone hand

and he walks on,

talking, and listening

and talking again

Social distance two-step at the corner

distracted me

(it always does)

and so the frontal view remains unknown

a sacred mystery

Still, in this briefest sunlit glance, there is

more nude male flesh than I have seen in years

(five years, almost, hushed coldly cloistered widowed years)

This sidewalk nakedness — a public crime

a misdemeanour at the least

perhaps a sign of madness?

new kind of (residential) street defiance?

or showy statement art?

But . . . doesn't feel that way —

not any of those ways

the strange thing is

it seems un-strange, un-crazy, ordinary

He just looks natural

his bareness merely sensible,

responsive to the day, the sudden heat

No odder to my (naked) eye than unclothed dogs,

and shameless supine cats

and saucy strolling crows

Would like to turn around, perhaps

just see what happens next,

see where he goes

see what he does

see what he means

But though he seems, somehow, quite proper

me turning back to look would be

the opposite

and so . . . I don't

Odd vibe of bland normalcy holds oddly strong

So strong that very soon

the naked moment slips my busy pointless mind

engaged in multivalent misery

and only comes back later, hours later,

in the night

when I'm at home

when I'm myself, enclosed,

alone again