Inside the Windows
Light comes in the window.
From the outside, it looks dark within.
At night, the light comes from your rooms
and any interested voyeur can see in,
see your butterscotch walls, the rich wood
of furniture. Maybe even you working
at the dining room table. A snapshot,
the first line of a story that same passerby
is left with, to create their own tale.
It’s what we do. Never content
with what we have, we create a whole world
from the details we can see through the window,
simple sometimes. Salacious sometimes. Wildly ours,
far more interesting, often, than what lives
inside the windows.
About this poem.
Inspired by coming on Edward Hopper’s “Night Windows” in one of my rabbit holes on the internet this morning.