Near Elephant and Castle station, as we slow,
a voyeur studies private lives on public show,
framed and displayed in every stacked and clustered hutch.
Two window panes and, as it seems, a long arm’s reach
are all that stops me — burglar, undetected guest —
from coolly checking out the absent owners’ taste
in electronics, magazines and paperbacks,
designer labels washed and hung to dry on racks.

No twitching of net curtains here. The contrary:
no curtains and no blinds. Today’s jeunesse dorée
is proud to make an exhibition of its stuff.
‘Here, passenger, is household art: each piece one-off.
Enjoy! But please respect our work; you may approach
(the Mona Lisa is the same) but may not touch.’