This is a piece of autobiographical poetry, inspired by the study of life writing I am doing at the moment. The accompanying image is unfortunately not the view that the poem talks of, as I understand it, no images from that window exist. I do however hope that the image enhances your reading of the text.
From my window, I could see tens of
back gardens stretched out in front of me,
as if I were standing out on a
balcony. I could call on neighbours
as subjects, as if I were Roman
Emperor, I could recite Shakespeare,
as if I were Juliet, longing
for my Romeo. From my window,
I could dream, and see where it took me.
From my window, I could declare next
doors plum trees to be my very own.
I could watch silently as our dog
jumped the fence to do his business. And
from my window, I could watch friends of
my parents leave, drunk, falling into
taxis, hours after I went to bed.
From the window in my old bedroom.