Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem every Friday for a year. This is 5/52. A fantasia.

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The Shop on the Corner

All through April I walked by your window

and wondered what you were seeing

way up high on the

building across the street.

Day after day, only looking.

Then I saw it too, when the morning light caught it:

the light grey pigeon building its nest in the

rusty drainpipe,

the pipe beginning to pull away from the eave.

I wanted to stand there for hours with you, admiring it.

I envied your patience, your poise and stillness,

right palm-up in a welcome.

Your bright red blouse.

Summer waited its turn as May scattered the last

of a colder than usual spring.

But finally it came, and

I saw that you had

turned your attention to the

For Rent sign on the corner.

Were you unhappy in your window?

Unhappy with your yellow sundress,

one hand on your hip,

the other right-angled to hold a small leather bag?

I considered offering to rent that house for you,

you and all your clothes, to find the largest window

with the best light for you. I crossed the street to

stand beneath the sign and see what you'd see.

When I stood just

so

your eyes looked through mine and I was ready to

confess to things I'd never done

but might, for you.

I knew we could never be together.

September brought you jeans and a parka,

and I was glad because the nights had begun to chill.

Now your eyes fixed on the school down the street, the

coming and going of cars, the small, colorful backpacks

carried by the noisy children. Was there a longing there?

In November

you were gone, replaced by

sheaves of winter wheat and

pumpkins and a hundred tiny paper hands,

turkeys carefully bred from crayons and safety scissors.

I considered asking about you. Perhaps someone

had rented that house for you.

I hoped you'd found a man

whose eyes you could look deeply into

and he wouldn't turn away.

Someone who knew without asking how far forward your

left foot should be, how you preferred your

hips to rotate, when your arms should open to an embrace.

All winter I walked a different way,

through the park to the west.

Your vacant window held too many memories,

too much left unsaid.

But spring and

wet sidewalk cement brought me

back to your street.

I was glad to see you in the window again, in your

expensive-looking green tracksuit and

matching running shoes,

holding a small pink bundle.

I stood close to the glass, peering at

your daughter. She had your eyes, looking up as if

there was no world or word

but you.

I looked until the glass fogged up and a young woman

came out to ask if she could help me. I told her no,

but to

please tell you I'm happy for you.

(c) 2023

Photo: Storefront at Norrmalmstorg in Stockholm. 1957, photographer unknown.