An alley. The warm side.
Red bricks mortared with sweat.
Black pipes track to the roof.
A radio bubbles the air.
Sad songs like cold air
drop into shadows.
A window watcher. Second floor.
Beneath the fire escape.
Fingers prying apart white blinds.
Viewing below; eyes deep set, hidden
in a cave, protected, revealing nothing.
Pigeons scatter; a squall of feathers
swirl to below. Heavy shuffling feet
enter a back door. Slamming hard,
waking the dead; two cats run for cover.
Window fingers slip into retreat.
Secret eyes full from stealing sights.
Roger Singer 