Looking out the window

I don't really see the world,

only a square of it through fine mesh and fingerprints.

looking up, truncated mountains; looking down onto legless passersby.

Steve's house to the east, the grey house with peeling paint to the west.

I miss so much.

not being able to see the color of people's socks

or the movement of clouds over the mountaintops.

I didn't see her dial her phone, only her animated conversation

as she paused in front of the house to admire the daffodils.

I saw a car pull away from the curb, not able to see whether

it would turn onto Arapahoe or Canyon.

I missed their embrace, the sight of her laughing

before she started sobbing at the gate;

who knows what she did after that, or if she

was ok, I am left only

wondering.