Point of View

A house stands solid with its shoulder to the road
asking nothing of the stranger who passes,
although this passerby has questions:
am I invited or rejected by your independent
stance, facing east on an east/west thoroughfare—
or shall I assume indifference to my
stares and curiosity since I cannot see
a welcome mat from this vantage point and,
in fact, I can’t even spot a doorway, front
or back, just windows on the side with dark
drapes half-drawn but no walkway leading
from the street to indicate an entrance or
any sign of human habitation except a puff
of smoke from your tilted chimney, so what
saves you from my petulant opinion
of a house that doesn’t seem to give a shit
is your bird feeder chockablock with seeds
plus a dog house in your yard and, though
it makes me lonely, I admire your dispassion,
suspecting that you glance at me and shrug.