It’s a day
And it’s much like any other.
The sky is bored out of its skull
And its clear internal matter
Dribbles over the skyline
Even the miniature Buddha on the veranda
Looks cold and pissed off.
Below,
The suits and ties bound across the pavement
And smell distinctly of wet dogs, though
I may be the source of this odour.
A woman in a white shirt
At least, I think she’s a woman
And it may be a shirt.
It is definitely white,
She is looking at me from her window
And I watch her from mine
The chasm between our two buildings
Makes us strange to each other
So we just stare at each other
Through our transparent prison walls
We stare until I’m not sure
What I’m looking at anymore
She has become this white canvas,
So I stop;
We stop.
And I focus
On the dogs below.
