Basement View

I grew up in a basement room in town.
Its windows, on a level with the street,
gave lovely views from knees to calves to feet.
I’d watch the eager legs that hurried down
to buses after work, and those that hiked
uphill at 8am. The way they walked
said more about their feelings, what they liked,
than if they’d paid a visit, sat and talked.

These days I live with elevated views
of other folk, and meet them eye to eye.
They nod and smile, which makes me wonder why
those friendly smiles so often seem a ruse.
Confused by faces, I’ll smile back, but sigh;
my wayward gaze still slides toward their shoes.