Hangers full of clothes without a theme, in the window, next to the rubber tree and the crystal ball

Bleached pale on one side a counterpoint to sun-pinked skin, I watch from a coffee shop window and hope I see them one day, strolling down the street with their unbalanced blouse

Men in suits on a stroll, the ubiquitous Subaru, cyclists in lycra

The window is inspiration, or boredom, or the portal which blankets the mind in timeless abstraction

The windows are open and the screens are in and the wind occasions upon the interiors of the locked up home, picking up snatches of strangers’ conversations and the lilting symphony of transit noise

We walk through doors but live through windows

We think of our window orientation to the arc of sun across the sky, trace the movement across our floors and walls, savor the cool breeze over hot nights, mourn the window’s loss of light in the winter

Some hangers hang useless, cloth-less, motionless in the stale apartment, that dress has moved to person or floor or hamper, that blouse has gone to Goodwill

A window is not a closet

A window can be many things

But a window is not a closet