She lives two buildings down.
Sometimes I see her alone
on the streets, as anonymous
as me or any other shopper. 
But mostly I catch her 
from my upper window.  I watch
as the old lady shuffles
through her garden, coaxing
her tulips to stand up.
She bends over, much like royalty
pausing to chat with her subjects.
She pats the tea roses on their heads,
chucks them under their chins,
straightens their posture.
Is she lonely?  Who
am I to question her garden island?
Perhaps she cherishes
her privacy. Do I have the right
to suggest otherwise?
I can't just take her under my wing.
But what if she should slip, break a hip
and lie there on her floor
(concealed by a wall)
for days?  Wouldn't I be partly
responsible?  My brother's keeper
and all that?  The oversized tv glows
through her apartment window
at 2 a.m.  Garbo leans
into Barrymore's
arms.