Communicating Authentically

I love driving through neighborhoods at night,
Looking into golden windows and wondering about the folks inside.
Are they smartly sipping martinis like Hepburn and Tracy,
Or in anguished conflict like Stella and Stanley,
In the Rockwellian warmth of familial togetherness,
Or each in retreat to a Hopperesque refuge?
If I met them on the street tomorrow,
Would I guess what they did at home last night?
Would I care?
Or does the romance of the hazy moon in the dark velvet sky
Intrigue me more than the reality of brazen daylight?