In my room, I hear raindrops
on my windowsill and  rush outside,
desperately try to stop
my jeans from soaking through to the inside.

In the garden, I can hear footsteps
from the neighbours,
“What a lovely day for it” he says - oh the depths
that his observation labours.

I look over the fence and see the bras
are hanging behind the jocks
in sequence, under my breathe I pass
a slight remark about the colour of my frocks (for the sexist lots).  

The beehive is so ironic,
neighbourly love is so platonic.