Good Neighbors

So there we were, all nice and warm, minding our own business.
That’s when we heard the sirens.
The lights flashed to a steady rhythm on our bedroom walls, penetrating both glass and fabric.
I just wanted to shut my eyes and let the night fade back in, but she wouldn’t let me.
So we made our early morning jog to the window to stand like spies as we peeked through the slits, like good neighbors.
Wanting to be close . . . but not too close.
Wanting to see . . . but not really know.
That way we could make up our own stories about whodunnits and about so-and-sos getting what they deserved.
Eventually the noise died down, the commotion ended, and the lights faded away down the road.
We stupored back to our caskets, feathers ruffled about being woken up, yet secretly glad for the gossip.
We settled back down, bodies horizontal, legs straight, arms folded, and put the satin tops back on our coffins.
Separate from the noise, separate from the light, separate from the truth.
Just glad it wasn’t us—glad we weren’t seen—that someone else had called the cops.
Glad that we could stay uninvolved, and uninformed . . . like good neighbors.