The Wooden White Skeleton

Today it faces me. Today it's ridged ribs, chalk white frame, bulbous skull, today the skeleton faces me. Usually it peers outward, out the window towards busy Stark St. and I can only catch its eye in the reflection of the glass. Today it's as though it signals to me, one arm frozen in upright salute or condemnation. I think the former. But now that I've noticed I can't ignore it.