The Stalker Monologues

Something in the way she runs
makes the windowframe so small.

The dog that lives at the corner
between the street sign
and the first lamp post
barks only for her;
though through the windowframe
you can only see her
at the bus stop,
fiddling with her hair
that the wind blew
over the wrong side of her brow.

She puts on her lip gloss, last thing
before the bus makes good on its word
at eleven thirty-four
Mondays and Thursdays
excepting holidays
when she doesn't go out at all.

She flashes a smile
at the cat,
the cat faces her
and she faces me
and the white of her teeth
is all I see of her face
against the reflection of me
that touches her from this far.