She’s sitting at my little desk,
drinking decaf.
How’d she get back in?
Where’s her blind man gone?
(I pray he’s gone—
though the desk needs tuning.)
What door was unlocked?
They all seemed bastioned.

I sight through the crack.

That’s my favorite cup,
with the bite out of it.

She’s writing one of my poems.

Just who’s sitting at that desk,
playing me?

Shrubbery, thrashing to get in,
lines all panes,
long windows split in parallels.

My windows set out
on separate expeditions.
They never meet,
no matter how far extended.

More Poems by Eleanor Ross Taylor