Windows for Voyeurs

I took the apartment
Because I like the windows

Windows on three sides
That's what I wanted

And it's hard to find that

When I lived downtown
I had to take a basement apartment

Three little squares of light
Looking out onto the pavement

I'm not sure I could have stayed there
Any longer than I did

Luckily, Richard got me this place
Which was lovely of him

He's taken care of the first three months rent
And the first and last

So I guess I can relax for a little while

From the windows I can see about eighteen other apartments clearly

That's without any help from telescopes or binoculars

Just my eyes

Today I sat in my bathtub and watched the woman across the street
Cut her husband's hair

As soon as it was all shorn off
She went into her bedroom and cried

I cried with her
But I knew why she was crying

I don't think she did

Lately I've been ignoring all the other windows
And focusing on the woman across the street

Her husband makes love to her every Thursday night at ten
And that's the only time I make an effort not to watch
Although I feel as if I've been privy to more intimate things
Though not by my intention

Tuesday mornings she makes breakfast
And she listens to something

I can tell by the way she lets her head fall down
And move as if lightly tugged
By an invisible string

Tuesdays are my day with Richard
But when he comes over
I blindfold him
And we make love with me on top
While I look out the window at the woman
Swaying to the music I can't hear
While her eggs fry on the stove

I don't ask myself about her

Who she might be
What her name could be
Why she wakes up in the middle of the night
And looks down at her husband
Like he's a stone too heavy to move

I just watch her
Dance around herself
And wonder when the music will stop

On Wednesdays she takes out a book, a binder
Full of pieces of paper
And lays them all out on the floor in front of her

I'm tempted to go out and buy something
To help me see what all those pieces are

Pieces to her, of her
I would imagine

Photos, and birth certificates
And old letters, and fabric swatches

Or maybe nothing

Maybe just blank squares of white
That she looks at it because she's crazy

Although I'm hesitant to label anybody that

Richard keeps canceling plans

Because of work, or because of other things
Because of little league games
And anniversary dinners
One of them his

He asks if I understand
And I tell him that of course I do

The rent's paid, isn't it?

What more is there to understand than that?

The woman's husband went out
And she's sitting in an amber stretch of light
That dies out just before it hits the door
To her apartment

If he comes back in, she won't notice
Not unless he wants her to

His hair is still scattered all over the floor
And a broom is leaning up against the kitchen counter
Like a forgotten promise

Somewhere her husband is lighter
While his burdens sit
On the floor in front of her

Richard's calling now

His anniversary must have ended prematurely

Maybe with an argument
Or a headache

And now he thinks he can sneak over here
And be back before midnight
Without anyone noticing

But I'm going to let the phone ring
Let it vibrate across the nightstand in my bedroom
Like a crying child
That needs to learn to put itself
Back to sleep

I might hear about it later
Or I might not

It's hard to figure out
What's going to get you in trouble nowadays

Across the street
The woman stands

I stop breathing

She steps out of the light
And up to the window

Her hands press themselves against the glass
Separate from what her eyes say she should do

She stares out the window
While I stand
And stare back

But I can't tell if she's looking at me
Or at a reflection
Of herself