To the woman whose bedroom I can see from my kitchen

November 9th, 2024.

I spent much of today curled in a ball on my bed
the Manhattan skyline shrouded by smoky fire air. 

It is November
we have not had rain 
in weeks
the driest ever, they say. 

I could not move from my fetal fear
paralysis position
the air smelled like middle school evacuation days
in California. 

I closed my blackout curtains to block the orange light,
terrified of all the tomorrows with skies like today. 

Finally, night fell and I
could pretend to not be 
so scared. 

I shuffled to the kitchen 
to scavenge for leftovers

and there you were, in your bedroom. 

I see you sometimes, from my kitchen window. 

You are a floor below, across a shaftway. 
You never look up, I've noticed. 

Once, I saw your naked body. 
I know I should have looked
away, but there is something 
soothing about your unfiltered
soft folds. 

You look to be around my age
my shape, a little
bigger
maybe. 

Tonight, you appear to be 
getting ready for a party. 

Heatless curlers in your dark
brown hair. 
You are adjusting your sheer 
black top 
layered over a bodysuit—
also black. 

Now pulling on a red pleather knee-length skirt. Tights. 

Where are you going? 
Are you scared, too? 

You remove the curlers and your long hair falls into place. 
I can see your clothes draped neatly on hangers. 
I find this, you, oddly comforting,  
your ability to get ready 
for a party
as the world burns. 

Your purse shimmers—sparkles, glitter? Will I 
ever run into you in 
the elevator? And then

darkness. 

You have turned off the light
and left. 

I'm sorry for spying
but thank you
for the show, 

this little slice of somebody's decision
that maybe things
aren't 
so bad. 

Or if they are, might as well 
wear a red pleather skirt and
choose a sparkly glitter purse.