Looking through the glass
Cooling caress of cubicle air,
Rakes my flapping hair.
Past Michelle’s clacking keyboard and coffee baptized bobble head,
Reflects the pane of glass.
Through which drifts the lazy clouds,
Dabbed an orange shade.
Once during lunch to the vacuum drone,
And downcast eyes of the cleaner I pressed my nose,
Against the view and tried to measure,
The distance to the toy city stretched so far below,
The animated insect lives that hurried to and fro.
Then another grey morning.
Crammed together with my fellow zombies,
Views avoiding each other, our gazes dodge, parry,
I look outside through shaking minibus glass,
To spy the straw hatted trolley pusher,
Filled with garbage, rolling past.
The blurred red light dripped till green,
And we overtook another browned face.
Till ejecting ourselves with smoothed down suits, below the IFC.
On some Saturday I finished attending to the numbers on my tiny screen,
Looked up from my tepid, sugar saturated coffee;
Through glass defined by rubber seals, marking the outline of this,
Street silencing shield, an old man, folded at odd angles,
On the rough pavement faced towards the ever close horizon,
His feet rubbed the concrete, his bare soles gathering scabs and cigarette butts,
Uncleared trash, till our eyes crossed,
And an eternal guilt had me fishing for my Ipad,
Some cool touch sensitive screen
To deliver me from this urban dream.