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Windows
I spend my nights outside
Beneath the luminous stars
That flicker
In a darkness that's both near and far.
The bulbs that burn behind the windows
Of the houses and apartments nearby
Shed light on the lives of the denizens
Therein, they
Dance and they cry
They sing and they scream
They cook food they can afford
Barely seasoned to taste
Behind each window, 
There's a story to read
Upon the weathered faces 
And in the eyes
Of the meek.

Outside, in the garden,
Beneath the arching branches
Of the citrus trees,
There stands a statue of the Virgin.
Wrapped in strands of honeysuckle
She is still and silent
Arms outstretched, palms upturned
She sees all, but does not judge
On some mornings, when the sky is drab
And grey like a worn soul
People come out of their homes
They sit on the bench she guards
And tell her secrets she can't disclose.
I envy her. . .

Behind each window,
There toils a heart
Misguided and shut out,
Rended and torn
I don't know the stories,
But I know their worth. 
Outside, there's a statue
And she's cold and she's numb.