Walls of narrow streets
were neighbors,
facing windows borrowing
light, shade.
From our balcony
I noticed a bowl of fruit
emptying, filling
on the table opposite.
Each night, over the sill,
a dishcloth, worn,
was spread to dry,
red stripes long faded.
Its people could
afford a new one,
but touch, close use,
had made it family. 

Years later, unable to sleep,
I remember how carefully
the cloth
was offered to the air.