View from the Sill

They moved the bed to the other wall

and filled the closet with spools of thread.

But the glass still has that hair-line crack

that lines up perfectly with the neighbor's chimney.

I used to sit here and wait for the porch lights

to flicker on down the block, one by one.

Now I am the visitor, the one who knocks,

watching the same street from a room

that doesn't belong to me anymore.