Through the window pane I watch them eating.
Through the curtains,
the silver grey curtains,
that sweep the floor like ballroom gowns
swirling confetti as they spin. They
were a gift
those curtains.
Music is playing in the background
and everyone is dancing to a well worn tune.

I stand here day and night
through every season.
Frost bitten in deep bitter snow
or sunk into hot August mud. Locusts
beating against my breast. Gnats trapped in
eyelashes and I can barely blink at the life
in front of me.

I watch the children grow,
the new and old marriages,
vacations planned, bought, and taken,
baseballs, ballet slippers, baking and sewing,
visits from relatives, in-laws, divorce and death,
not necessarily in that order;
domesticities of the modern life.

Same as it ever was- the song sang- same as it ever was- the song sang- same as it ever was-
the groove gets deeper and deeper and yet it all stays the same
was it ever the same as it ever was?

There is a life behind me,
but I can’t see it
my face is glued to the window
“that life, that life is the right life…righteous…televised…”
If only I could turn around,
toss my envy into the compost
beside the perfect house, and turn around
see the many roads that reach out into the horizon.

There is a life behind me
I know because I can feel the sun
on my shoulders, urging me to move,
there is a life behind me, but
my eyes are glued to the Norman Rockwells, and the
American Dream,
if only I could turn around,
but all I can do is close my eyes
and feel the tears of the seasons.
the seasons are always hot
even in the winter.

I stand in the window as the sliver curtains
are drawn, once again, and the chatter never fades,
and I wonder,
will they ever get new curtains?
When they do will they see me standing here
or will I finally be gone?