The Light in the House

Standing on the edge of the property, at two in the morning I wonder why that light is on, and why its the color of a million shameless nights.

I stop at this spot in the middle of the night, restless sleep drove me here, pushing away the branches in the yard not mowed since late summer, and I stare at that house.

I wonder if anyone is awake, and if they are, what are they thinking? Do they walk the four foot space in front of the window, a shadow oscillating like a airgun target a fairground, taunting onlookers, begging them to look, to question why is there a figure in the window at two in the morning?

And why do you look, why aren't you asleep with the rest of the world? Is this distant rendezvous pure coincdence, a dream that sticks with you the rest of the next day, with the window shade up the next morning, the house dark during the day and at night a beacon of question, a curiosity that will never be resolved, but in dreams, when the shade rises up, and we look into the horrors of our days.