I try to ignore the window
washer leaning against me; he strokes the sheet
that separates us, blocks my light,
my view of construction across the way,
but ignores me, too,
when our gazes accidentally intersect,
a moment before we recalibrate
our focal depths. Then he becomes the window

through which I glance, groping for the next
word, hand hovering above this blank, while I become
the glass that reflects his form,
a form he doesn't even have to watch
in order to sustain
its perfect rhythm's line.

by Wendy Vardaman

Comments (1)

Very powerful contrast is offered here between the beauty of architecture and the ugliness of man's actions- -it is like visiting a graveyard where great care is taken to gardens of flowers and inspiring statues but what we see is row upon row of the dead