I watch you sitting at the window
of your 3rd floor apartment
while I sit on a bench at the end of the park
collecting the currency of poems.

I have a cup out, yes, but I'm looking for
spare words
some inspiration from someone who has too much
will share with me
but it's a cold night
those who pass by look away
keep silent.

So I look at you, your long brown hair
rivered around your shoulders-
how liquidly it moves when you turn your head
I can see now, you're talking to someone in the room
as if you wished they would keep quiet.
You have a window to look out of
this is what your life's about
and I'm watching you living it.