In a pasta house off DeGraves’ way,
I pause to watch the diners stay;
They line the glass, a living show,
As if on stage for all to know.
Forks lift slow in the window’s frame,
Their laughter soft, their gestures same;
And I, outside, can scarce convey
Why they delight in such display.
Do they not feel the watcher’s eyes,
The passing crowd, the small surmise?
Or is it joy—to see, be seen—
A theatre made of glass between?
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