Envy, Tuesdays

She put the birdfeeder up last month.

Cedar post, little copper roof.

I've been watching it from the kitchen window

while my coffee brews—not on purpose,

or not at first.

Tuesday she came out in her robe,

pale blue, the tie dragging,

and poured sunflower seeds from a paper bag.

Some scattered across the fence rail.

She didn't look bothered.

She went back inside without looking over.

I've been at this window most mornings now—

twenty minutes, coffee going cold—

watching birds I couldn't name

eat from something someone else put there.

There's a word for what this is.

I'm not using it yet.