I can see the holly tree out my window,
its green sea of thorns: it’ll be time to trim
it back soon, before branches 
block the view of the neighboring house 
where the newlyweds live. 

I like to watch them hold hands as they walk down the drive, 
he opens the car door for her to climb in,
always off to brunch with their young friends 
or on some adventure across the river 
or down lively Nashville way. 

It’s sadly quiet when they’re gone —
no string trimmer working the ragged
edges of the space between us,
no sunbathing on the deck,
no soft voice calling from the kitchen
asking if he’s hungry. It’s just the
two of us, dear, strangers behind devices,
wondering how much it’ll rain.

Headlights slice the ceiling 
to tell us they’ve returned. 
We lower our tablets, our battered shields,
and listen to their laughter as they stand 
at the back door fiddling with the stubborn lock.
It’s laughter which seems to say
we’re aware that you are watching,
and we see what you’ve become.