The Man Upstairs

flosses his teeth regularly
rinses well – dresses in a salmon colored suit
with plush velvet on the wide lapels
no underwear no socks
alligator moccasins.
 
He keeps his secret behind a curtain
–a little balloon man –
perfect, rubber and silk;
the dummy’'s perfectly buck naked
a peach of a boy-man – pink flesh,
silent of course and affectless.
Some days he scolds his friend.
On account of the children,
he won’'t call anyone to watch. 
 
When it’s late at night, he lifts the curtain,
removes his suit and fancy shoes,
and addresses his prop, his company:
“Don’t  move you silly thing.
These last few weeks, any move
will upset my balance.
I’ve two kids to feed and educate
a job, a wife, and a mistress who's fine.
You could make me infamous for all time
and for all the wrong reasons. Stop it!”