Other People’s Windows

Central Park is closed,
but I stand inside
it’s gates,
holding my little dogs
as they sniff
and scratch
and pee.
A rat rounds the garbage can,
squeaking,
at the sound of a carriage,
hooves weary under
the weight of sneakers
and foreign tongues.
Street lamps leak
white ghosts
onto the sidewalk that turns
in Olmsted curves,
and light spills from
other people’s windows.
I see their shadows,
turning in salons of
gold and red,
silent,
and baroque,
like reveries
of a time that
once sipped
pleasure.

Photo by:
Sean Witzke

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