Frosted Bins

The neighbor’s balcony is a stack of secrets

kept in cheap frosted tubs.

I can see the ghost of an orange jug,

the Tide logo a vague, bleeding bruise

pressed against the milky wall.

Why do I have to know their brand of soap?

It’s a hazy, plastic intimacy

that makes me want to pull the blinds

and forget the way the light

fails to pass through.