mostly, I hear a phone ringing. Not much else.
Maybe I’d stand at the window more often
if the view were nicer—a lush forest
and a little doe eating red berries from a bush.
Even if she were only there briefly, even if
she never looked at me before leaping off,
it’d be better than this. What brings me here,
usually, is some dish I left out overnight.
(This time it’s a brown and withering
green salad.) But I want to be able to say
that it’s hope that brings me to the window,