The Detective's House
by Jordan Sanderson

He still wasn’t sure of windows,
the give and take of the visual sense.
He was used to suspects filing
in, knowing he was there, unable to see

him. He liked not having to look
away periodically as one does in public
when strangers take a seat facing you,
only your table and theirs clarifying

the relationship. He never liked navigating
eyes, the way they shift and blink, flash
the same color like cautions. The street, he knew,
wasn’t something one could hide behind,

so he opted for windows with blinds. Still,
he worried the neighbors would see him watching
television, walking the vacuum over the floor,
checking his messages when he came in.

He imagined standing in the window,
inspecting the sky, the blinds falling
from him like bandages, his wound
of a body seeping through them.

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