The Voyeur's Gratitude

This dark afternoon in July, this all-day rain,
means you are home and your lights are on
and I can put down my book and pen
and stand for awhile in my study, in the dark,
and watch you while you work.

You have your work gloves on, your drill,
you're hanging something on your wall,
shelves, or a mirror. You hold three nails
in your pursed lips, stand tip-toe in old jogging shoes
and a paint-flecked tank-top, straining. Thank you
for your open curtains, that little mercy,

and for hiring men to trim your trees,
to restore clear air to those places that filled with green
so I can live in them again. Stand with me here a minute,
listen to the rain. We could both go out in it,

we could meet, and talk, try to impress
each other. But we could never be as generous
as your window light. There would be bitterness,
eventually, a closing up. And then ruin, then regret.
I'll go on watching you work, loving the ache of it.