Jenga

A poem about apartment living

there is a certain anonymity

to the glass that faces our homes.

a protective layer;

we convince ourselves that penetration is

impossible,

yet permeability pervades.

lives are lived and we are all privy.

ground floor we have fluorescent lights

and a couple who cooks.

on the second floor lives a girl

who dances unbridled in warm light.

third floor girl reaches for a blanket,

pulls it to her chin.

lights flicker on and off.

cigarette on a balcony in boxers,

inhale exhale and watch

all these not-so-little lives

stacked neatly on top of one another:

jenga.