out the window of the kitchen
reminds me of lost love.
sure, it soars away,
but it is good
to look at.
does it see me
and think
there's that writer?
this house
is not my home,
but it's good to know.
I hear a motorcar
zoom by
beyond the hedges.
dogs dance past
the picket fence,
pretending to be wolves.
the morning
belongs to no one,
but me.
I saw a shooting star
late last night,
she was good.