There is a shade
above the double window
in our bedroom.
I pull it down when I’m undressing
to thwart a peeping Tom
if there should there be one
intrigued by what I wear upon my bones.
Silly, isn’t it, that I should care
if someone stares at me
when I am bare at nearly eighty-one?
I really doubt there’s anyone there
but pull the shade down
to suggest my meager hope
that there’ll be someone
out beyond my window.