the house across the street looks empty,
georgian roof lined with slate,
the green paint peeling up against the red brick -
through the window glass i see the backs of curtains drawn shut.

i know a man lives there -
i've seen him come and go, even spoken a few times,
and i see his dogs out back,
but i've only seen a light inside once,
when i was wide awake at an unholy hour.

it felt so foreign,
to see the windows brightly lit,
a cheery yellow glow coming from inside,
and all around it, the bleakness of starry night.

it was only for a moment,
as though it knew i'd looked, and shuttered the light again,
saying, "you didn't catch me looking at you"
though of course, it knew the truth.

there is life in that old house, yet.
and i know it's there.