Dinner Theater

We placed our round dinner table at the picture window
to catch the light and the best view of the house
directly across the street,
three levels of shallow porches
above Rosie's Variety.
Tonight a woman comes out from a middle door,
her hair raven and straight,
her red turtle-neck brighter than a fire engine,
breasts overflowing her bra
as she leans her pale arms over the porch railing
and examines the intersection from above -
four red octagonal stop signs on the street below -
and suddenly she turns and yells through the open window
to someone inside who yells back.
She exits the stage, slamming the wooden door behind her,
rattling its nine panes of glass.
My husband and I look at each other over our finished bowls of beans
and simultaneously say "Dinner Theater."