every evening after supper. In the summer
there was commotion outside. People visited with neighbors
sitting on their stoops to talk about the day,
work at the factory, their bosses, their pay,
or whose kid ran away, who died, who's moving away.
This was inner city entertainment I could understand.
But in the winter, the street was a tomb -
still, silent, dark, except for the occasional passing
car or pedestrian rushing to get home, the leafless tree
shivering naked, standing in the cold and the wind pushing
some debris or snow. My grandfather sat watching as if the window
was the stage for a show whose art only he could see.
This, to me, was incomprehensible.
I think of him sometimes when I stand by my own window,
(For Poets United.)