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Array
(
[sid] => 71610
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Window
[time] => 2004-11-15 15:40:23
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Brown house. On top of a hill. Set in the distance, Sitting patiently and still. On the second floor, One window to the right, A window always in use, The only window with a light. Behind that window, Through the glass, Is a chair, And a man with a mustache. The man, He sits all day, Looks through the window, Stares without stray. His eyes, See everything that passes by, Watching the world, Able to understand why. In his hands, There is a book, Where everything is written, And his notes are took. Page eleven is labeled Monday, When he saw a mother and child, She looked distressed, And her daughter screamed wild. She walked hastily down the sidewalk, Pulling her stubborn child behind, With anger in her face, And a destination in mind. Heels under her feet, And suit in her body, With white gloves on her hands, And a hat very gaudy. The child was a mess, Her pants were too small and too short, A shirt way to big,, As she was pulled in discomfort. Now the man looks even more through the window, And through the woman as well, Where he sees a burning mother, And an abused child stuck in this hell. He can see the woman’s weeping heart, The neglected daughter, Who wants and calls to her mother, But she knows she shouldn’t bother. Page fourteen says Tuesday, Where there was a man with a dog, But the man seems upset, And blinded by a fog. The man in the house, Watches the owner walk his pet, And he realizes this man, Is really quite upset. The man stops and coughs, And he knows why, The dog stares at his master, Who is soon going to die. The man in the house, Knows the owners time is almost up, That he will have to go, And he will have to give away his pup. Page seventeen is entitled Wednesday, Where the man sees a car crash, With two cars in flames, Who sped together with a clash. He saw the victims, One a young boy, and the other and old lady, Both cars were totaled, A Volvo and a Mercedes. One was drunk, and the other was just too old, As they went flying head to head, At a thousand miles an hour, To result with both of them dead. He saw it all happen, It wasn’t one person’s fault, Neither were watching, And neither tried to halt. Page twenty is marked Thursday, When he saw a little boy, About the age of three, And he was not in any joy. The little boy runs down the sidewalk, Whaling and screaming loud, Mud on his pants, Lost in the crowd. The little boy has lost his mom, With no where to run and no where to turn. Not knowing what to do, Hinting that somewhere there is a mother in concern. He watches everyday Always looking out his house, Watching, Staying inside like terrified little mouse. But, over the years this man has learned, That if you want to know someone deep and below, You have to look through them, Like you would look through a window. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 166 [topic] => 31 [informant] => n0body [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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