Blissful Squalor

It was, I think, in Holland that I first noticed
picture windows showing lit up living rooms
without curtains or concealment, displaying
staged presentations of ordered domestic bliss.
But I was raised in shrouded concealment,
with the incoming light bound and blinkered
so only birds could peek inside and see
the relative dishevelment of my existence.
A hermetic messiness usually only sorted
when others were allowed inside the curtains.