I look into and up and out millions of windows
in Brooklyn. I imagine the myriad of stories that fill
the space between front and back doors.
Lights--through the well to do
Carroll Gardens’ bay windows
and the section-8 bars in Bed-Stuy--
seep into the world the same way,
if there are cracks in the sidewalks.
Reflections morph single gestures of love,
panes muffle all the words that spur hour-long fights.
I take a late night taxi over the bridge.
In between boroughs there are endless windows.
I ask the cabbie,
“How many would you guess?”
Lackadaisically, he tells me,
“Just count the flickering blue squares.”
I number them like stars.
My lover and I lollygag in bed until the early
morning dew spots dry on the dirty glass.
Our dog moves back and forth over us, under and above
the sheets that smell like stale cigarettes.
The maddening loose manhole, car horns, bus hydraulics,
the bickering and babbling teenagers
become a cacophony outside our widow.
With the curtains open, the world can see
our bare skin and our messy hair.
Every year I move deeper into the ghetto.
Is it serendipity or gentrification
that helps safety follow me?
Maybe passersby see
me through my window. Do they
see me struggling or smiling?
Or maybe I’ve become obsessed
with other people’s windows
and all I want to do is sit in their living rooms
for a change.
Words from by Rebecca DeWitt-Fix's Facebook Status (and the comments)
