The window of my job is bedazzled with fly carcass
flattened between the screen
and some life worth laying eggs in 
it’s usually on my lunch break
I can see right through their make shift mausoleum
to our neighbors clothes line 
 
like a bird watcher
 
through the kaleidoscope binoculars
there’s always the camisole blushed with cinnamon 
the pencil shaving duvet slip
checkered boxer shorts swaying like sheet music 
caught in the breeze
a starched parade for September’s finale
 
I clock in late again
to spy on the old woman installing her linen exhibits 
stapling them right onto the horizon
a hunched museum curator in blue fuzzy slippers  
 
we both have our men 
that are nothing more than bodies filling the boxers 
like they were picked up by the sky 
from their back belt loops
and held there with clothes pins
for us to admire 
like  bird watchers