Alice N. Persons
Night Walk
The dog and I silently pass by houses
nondescript in the daytime
now open curtains and yellow lamplight
give me glimpses of strangers' lives
figures passing through rooms
the almost ubiquitous blue light of huge TVs
often the screen is big enough
so I can catch a fleeting look at what they're watching
colorful explosions, a lion bounding after a gazelle
the dog pulls me past quick snapshots
children's artwork on the refrigerator door
in a bright yellow kitchen where someone's baking
something with cinnamon that makes my mouth water
enormous family photos crowding a wall
often a silhouette upstairs absorbed in another blue screen
sometimes I'm rewarded with something different
the soaring swell of a Verdi aria
a cat in the window regarding me intently
a quiet cottage with candles lit and no TV on
and once, a house where the faint sound of
Van Morrison's "Tupelo Honey" floated out
and two tall white-haired people
were waltzing through their living room
