Wednesday, December 14, 2011

City Windows

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)