Street

From the outside, two rows, residential,
With little to choose between fronts.
From a window of one I see
Shadowy stirrings for breakfast,
Cannot make out
Whether it's tea or coffee they're making
(Home-ground or tinned or instant),
Whether in radio patter,
In silence or conversation,
Nor which way the headlines are slanted
They'll read or not read first thing.

Then the cars begin to pull out,
Not quite all of them, not from every gate,
None from this, more than one from that,
Footfalls clack and subside,
Not quite all of them in a hurry,
These not purposeful, those detained by a dog.
...