She watches
from the outside of your house, peeps
from the inside of hers, through heavy curtains drawn
across windows that have been cleaned to squeaking perfection,
lest the sun should show a print of who’s been round.

The watcher watches silently 
as the lovers love in tandem with the mourners and the miners
and the movers and the dreamers of dreams that cannot be
realized from behind a wooden fence, but don’t tell Gladys.
She already knows.