Window

Window

Here at 6am,
the heads and cheeks of houses
bandaged in scaffolding,
I notice our window.

The sill
blackened with wet,
the glass, rippling with age,
and the crowning cherubs
trumpeting "1861"
as the year that these bricks
first took on emotion.

The Airlink bus fills,
oblongs its way
onto damp roads gleaming like steel

a street lamp clicks off

a slouching teen places tables outside Costa

traffic lights receive
their morning’s first clients.

All sense of sleep, gently dissolving.

Except our window
which carefully reflects
the first bead of morning sunlight;
see-through and all-seeing,
like the ghost
of our future supine selves

looking back to now
confusing it for then.