Outside, a window washer watches
me watching him, works a rhythm,
window after window, simulating a
seamlessness, tipping his squeegee
after every-other downward stroke,
coercing the water to run like blood
from each overlapping pass, though
of course he can’t touch my shining
smudges, the smeared prints inside,
five-eighths of a glinting inch away.
©2018 by D. R. James
Previously appeared in Lost Enough (Finishing Line Press, 2007).
D. R. James, of Saugatuck, Michigan, is the author of two poetry collections, most recently If god were gentle (Dos Madres Press), and five poetry chapbooks, most recently Split-Level and Why War (both from Finishing Line Press), and teaches writing, literature, and peace-making at Hope College.