A picture window.
We who have keys to the inside
have homes, summer houses,
condos with two bathrooms
and private linear blinds to close.
We look out on a courtyard inside a fence,
greenery in a nook secluded from the street,
a place to lie down with a blanket,
to take care of small needs on a weekend
when this professional building lies fallow.
Perfect hide-away from those who belong.
Our writing group enters, we stare through
glass, they stare back, a needle in his hand
suspended against his thigh
where he was privately searching
for a vein. In slow motion, he leans forward
moves her bag watching us. We insiders
stock still, our eyes shift to and from
his bare leg to their frozen eyes: caught.
We distract, look at the chairs we
would reorganize. But the scene is
invasive: them to us, us to them.
We exit, with a trail of words
to escape what we’ve seen, we
wonder what to do next.
There are other rooms we can use.
The woman folds her blanket,
we regroup, each intruder knows
who we are, how we see each
other. We decline calling the police,
let them walk away holding their
dignity. Besides, by the time the police
came, it would be a report, taking our
precious minutes. The key holder
will tell the landlord on Monday.