On Certain Eventings

I stand outside at night in flannel slippers
and often watch the second floor apartment
window, slightly freed from shadow by the
city's lights cast pink against an evening
of fog, and catch my neighbor perched between
the plastic shutters, leaning her slim frame into
the sky through the open sill, flicking ashdust
from cigarettes out over the dirty yard
snow. She is cute and quiet and lives alone.

                                      And she's a dancer.
On certain evenings I've seen her caught behind
the glass dancing alone. She fills her room
with every spin and turn and twirl, while long
auburn-burnt strands collapse over her shoulders
encircling the strap of her bra in one full curtain
of hair, hiding her Levis pockets and pack
of Camel Lights. I'm spying on loneliness
and how it moves; this dance I know the steps to.

          DAN BEHRENS