Hiding in Plain Sight

Nov 26 2012

I am looking down

from my open window,

a 3rd story 1-bedroom flat.

I am a potted plant

in badly tended soil,

perched on the outer ledge.

A baby grand

winching up,

unstrung, in frayed suspense.

Only the paranoid

glance my way,

and who would listen to them?

I see tell-tale bald spots

shining pinkly,

which even their owners

would disbelieve.

Majestic bosoms

I ogle, freely,

jiggling directly beneath.

Cracks in the pavement

children at play,

a paper trail leading away.

A spilled cup of coffee

erratically rocking

like a lazily luffing sail.

Spattered liquid, mocha pale,

the indelible human stain.

From the corner of my eye

I see the car careen,

suddenly jump the curb.

See it still, in my sleep

keep hearing them scream.

Now, in my basement apartment

a window-well lets in the light.

And all I see

are disembodied parts;

a furious blur of legs,

strutting, shuffling

running past.

I have the impression

of one-way glass.

Where time

is mere succession

and I find contentment

in endless now.

Where there’s nowhere left to fall,

and no one looking down.