looking up from the street

The tree is still there,

the one I used to see

from my desk, where I'd be

stuck at three in the afternoon,

needing something to hold.

The mailbox is still there,

the same rust, the same dent,

the way the flag is bent,

the way it sticks like it always did.

But the curtains are new—

are blue, are not

the kind I would have bought,

and someone else lives behind them now,

someone else chooses blue

and hangs it

and closes it

and opens it

to the same view

that used to be mine.

I'm standing on the street,

looking up at the window,

and the distance feels immense,

though it's only two years,

only a locked door

and a stranger's life

between me and that room.

The tree keeps growing.

The mailbox keeps rusting.

And I keep standing here,

outside,

looking in,

knowing that windows

don't let you back in

once you've looked away.