Can’t help staring, slyly watching
how they interact, anticipating dinner,
changing channels, sliced by window blinds
they gather around tasteful furniture.
Television gives a ghostly glow
between open curtains, movement,
life and smells of frying fish.
Out here the streets is quiet.
Unobserved, I observe behind glass
people alone, people in groups,
movement in back rooms, calling and clutter,
cat in the window, one chair out of place.
Preparing their evening meal,
heads bent over steaming stoves,
stirring smells of dinner into evening air,
lifting lids to poke boiling potatoes.
Nordic lamps, designer sofas,
bright paintings splashed on white walls,
elegantly shaped plants, exotic knick-knacks
artistically arranged to signaling places they’ve been.
A chair pushed back by a gaping terrace door,
curtains fallen on rooms full of golden light,
candles lit, although it’s still early.
Early for a ghost to be walking the streets.