Catching Up

A house on the hill is meant to be a refuge,
where the self-made go to feel set apart,
to clock out and leave the city behind—
never mind that it’s the thing propping them up.
But distance isn’t the same as disinterest.
They watch. They always have.
Foreheads pressed to the glass,
consuming our everyday rituals
and affordable lunches,
collecting little field notes—
who takes the first bite,
who lingers too long,
who tilts their head just so before—

I try to imagine what their footage would look like,
a hybrid of surveillance and observational documentary.
The pair of chairs angled for conversation
and a clear view of the fire.
The pit gone cold,
hissing as the rain finds what’s left.
Steam blurring the edges, yet still,
it’s uncontestable—
this was never just catching up.

by Kayla Kennett