Looking In

When very small

I pressed my face to glass

despite warnings to not

to peer through grime

to see inside teetering sheds

that reeked of mice and mold

to view shabby overstuffed furnishings

broken drums, drawers, and lampshades

soundless, empty, skeletonized,

the obscured trappings of forgetfulness.

I pressed my face to rough boards

splintery shingles on precarious barns

despite warnings to not

to wallow in their chiaroscuro

to stare blinded into dark corners

by sunshot piercing the pinholed roofs

to watch dusty birds bustling between dry-rot beams

sawdust churned by their pattering wings.

I pressed my ear to walls, cracks, grates, and doors

despite warnings to not

to hear whisperings, whimperings, wandering minds,

to steal dreams from other lives more mysterious

pressing to see through others

in danger of one day

shattering the barriers

landing in choking dust

with another looking in.