The neighbors are brawling:
Angry woman shouting, can’t say what,
Toddler wailing, things being shoved against walls.
I sit still, hand on my book, eyes without focus.
I want to tell you about it, like you can stop it.
But having no means to do so myself,
I’d rather you be out, charming everyone, out of sight.
Maybe I’ll do yoga, or (now that I have a stove) make myself tea.
Pulled back to my environment by faint sirens,
I pull up the shades, make myself visible to late night walkers.
Maybe I’ll sit on the sill and just let Sunday
Have its final say.