The view from my window is not
Quiet,
It’s like a painting
Still and moving,
Like a river, like the Thames maybe,
Like the Ganges before summer,
Like depression, like balloons
Filled with laughter and held by a string,
Like tomorrow as it feels today,
Like 5 pence from Britain
In Zimbabwe,
Like the price of bus tickets,
The price of tin box promises
Paid with silence,
Like red hot guilt simmering
Just below the surface,
Like numb and running noses,
Like the sun, bright, and empty,
Like the snow in February,
Falling, stalling, falling, stalling,
Like an old dog, chasing rabbits in
His sleep,
Like old pictures, stacked against
Empty bottles of water by the window sill,
Old pictures that rewind and play
Memories of multicolored days,
Old pictures, sad pictures, the
Smiles that don’t get wider anymore.
The view from my window is of
Sloping tiles, and smoking chimneys,
And albino pigeons and guano
On gray streets, and if I hang by my toes,
Just maybe I can glare back at the
London Eye,
And taunt the BT Tower,
And wave my phone at it,
And frankly I wonder why,
Because I don’t want to speak to anyone,
And I don’t want to see anyone,
Except for a girl back home,
Whose window sees different things,
And I wish my window faced hers,
So I could see her curtains like hands
Billowing to me in the breeze,
Smell the fragrance of simple dinners,
And feel the promise of an evening
Spent smiling, and talking, and smiling,
And hoping, and talking, and smiling,
And know the color of her mood,
By the colors that she wears,
And let loose balloons filled with
Laughter,
Presents barely contained like the longing
At my window,
Still and moving.
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