Water and Glass
Tim W. Brown
Eyes grow bleary under
a cataract of files,
reports and documents.
Such is second shift
on the forty-seventh floor.
So whenever I can,
I rest my eyes
on farther sights:
Sailboats like diamonds
on Lake Michigan,
cars scurrying through
a maze of streets,
buildings red in sunset,
bricks no more a reach
than picking plums.
Looking on the skyline
I see my lover's building
located blocks away.
It's then I know
I can't reach
that far after all.
For there are canyons
between, and a river
where at night a crane
dredges, shovel slugging
through smoked glass.
My fists also pound
on glass restraining me,
at least until midnight
comes, and we're free.
