Street Stories
I’m not a creep.
My comfort zone is just inside
and the best reading spot
just happens to be by the street-facing window.
Most of the time,
the stories held in my hands
capture all my attention.
But sometimes I look out the window
and wonder about the stories going on
right in front of me.
A teenager across the street--
obviously not afraid of heights--
sneaks in and out of her second-story window.
Is she a rebel refusing to stay grounded,
or is she running from a tension-filled house
to a haven elsewhere?
The boy from down the street
practices skateboard tricks in the nearby cul-de-sac.
Sometimes he gets scraped up badly,
but, undaunted, he gets back up
until he nails it.
Is he going to enter a competition
and beat the bully bothering him like a cliché movie plot,
or is he learning to teach another friend?
A mother who always takes
at least half an hour
to wrestle her three toddlers into the car.
Does she dread dragging them around,
or is she happy to take them out
to create memories together
no matter the cost of time and effort?
The couple that walks hand-in-hand
every day at dusk,
as if fresh air as the sun sets is dessert.
Until the day he walks by
without his companion.
Did they break up,
or are they trying to make it work long-distance?
The neighborhood grandpa,
seemingly sitting his last years away
on the porch’s rocking chair,
drags out trash bins for those
that forgot it was trash day.
He knows what the business of life is,
and he doesn’t mind easing the burdens of others.
Sometimes the neighborhood grandpa
catches my eye
and winks,
one observer to another.
I’m not a creep.
I’m a witness of life.
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