Bay Windows

Sep 22 2012

Auburn, Alabama.
When I drive by houses at night,
I look in the bay windows
and covet the other lives inside.
I would like to learn someone else’s space,
because mine is worn.
These are the people I know,
these are the things I do,
these are the places I go.
Life’s bright flashes of color
are gone; did the light stop shining
or did the glass get dirty?

Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
The stately lanes feel familiar.
As I try the city on, I realize
that UNC is someone’s place;
someone I’ve never met.
Suddenly, everyone takes up real space.
Moving through the world, each person is
a whole world unto themselves,
a whole history untold as of yet,
a collection of the same sorts of things
that I keep inside, not less than mine
but different, not just that they like
baby blue more than I
but that this person graduated high school
and is now here at a university
wanting people and things and a place
in the same way that I want people and things
and a place. The spatial awareness is overwhelming.

Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
It is easy to get used to that which recurs
but the rupture of repetition points out
that Auburn is not the only place,
nor is this the only time;
and worlds upon worlds upon worlds
pass by each other on the sidewalk
of a university where someone lives
and someone visits,
and someone wants to return to.

Auburn, Alabama.
Someone sees my porch as they drive by,
golden glow laughter-pocked, and I know
they wish they had my bay windows.

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