Work Window
Friend or foe? Shatterproof? Nothing to tuck fingers under, nothing to wrench against, a vertical hole of the world that does not open. Only shadows of diagonal, columns of light, glimpses of steel, peeks into a possibility…
Pieces of clear tape-scratched, broken, attempts to remove yet they remain. Square vertical strips, some tent shaped. Once holding memos of important information. Don't forget to put in your schedule, Dr. Jones will be covering for Dr. Lee on…If you have not signed up for your fire and safety class… Dirt flecks, specks of cheap institutional paint egg-shell white. Withered taupe curtains hang lazily, limply; the same curtains would have more vibrancy if they hung in a newlywed's bedroom, their first house. But these know they have no purpose so they remember that they are just thread. The overcast day wants to invite, but then understands that you are at work. ....
Past the window is Roscoe Blvd. but it could be any busy street. Union, Hill, Lincoln or Grand - anywhere that has grimy orange city buses which pass every hour with the Rock looking challenged, or Angelina Jolie appearing to be another woman than who she is. There is a light made of the same thing as the street the cars rush by on. Cars pause holding people inside, interiors a harried oasis of NPR or top 40 hits, Jack In the Box wrappers and accordioned reflectors to block out the sun that
is not there. ....
Landscapers dig. Striped-shirts with faded colors, darker under the arms but a different dark than their skin, bleached hair. They rest and then they step into holes they've just dug so only their chest can be seen. Half the men they once were. Clouds, peace in flight, mountains-stoic, promises of a past we were not a part of. A future that is questionable. The world moves by slowly, it can't be seen, something metaphysical. Time is reflected by the orange hand, the orange seconds (15, 14, 13, 12…) running to the opposite side and the white figure that reassures when to cross the intersection. Seven black birds with fat low hanging bellies swoop past, emboldened by companionship and purpose, they are there and then they are not, no longer seen but still somewhere past the hole of the world. ....
If glass is sand, then sand is glass but I don't think of the beach. The birds that flew by weren't seagulls with grey bodies and white throats. There is no pull and tug of the ocean from the tides, only the rush and grind of the engines from the street below. No smell of sea weed, no smell at all though I see fumes shooting out the back of big, old, trucks with sharp irregular branches and lawn mowers. No sound though I see mouths moving, eyebrows raised, mother's heads turned back where car seats hold children with kicking legs in red pants and white socks. ....
Everything's the same, but then it's brighter, yellowier, the volume is dialed up on the day as the sun comes out again, almost shining through the work window and into me, maybe it does. If I were not at work would the world, right here in this place, look the same? If I were not here to notice it out of this hole in the world?....
Pieces of clear tape-scratched, broken, attempts to remove yet they remain. Square vertical strips, some tent shaped. Once holding memos of important information. Don't forget to put in your schedule, Dr. Jones will be covering for Dr. Lee on…If you have not signed up for your fire and safety class… Dirt flecks, specks of cheap institutional paint egg-shell white. Withered taupe curtains hang lazily, limply; the same curtains would have more vibrancy if they hung in a newlywed's bedroom, their first house. But these know they have no purpose so they remember that they are just thread. The overcast day wants to invite, but then understands that you are at work. ....
Past the window is Roscoe Blvd. but it could be any busy street. Union, Hill, Lincoln or Grand - anywhere that has grimy orange city buses which pass every hour with the Rock looking challenged, or Angelina Jolie appearing to be another woman than who she is. There is a light made of the same thing as the street the cars rush by on. Cars pause holding people inside, interiors a harried oasis of NPR or top 40 hits, Jack In the Box wrappers and accordioned reflectors to block out the sun that
is not there. ....
Landscapers dig. Striped-shirts with faded colors, darker under the arms but a different dark than their skin, bleached hair. They rest and then they step into holes they've just dug so only their chest can be seen. Half the men they once were. Clouds, peace in flight, mountains-stoic, promises of a past we were not a part of. A future that is questionable. The world moves by slowly, it can't be seen, something metaphysical. Time is reflected by the orange hand, the orange seconds (15, 14, 13, 12…) running to the opposite side and the white figure that reassures when to cross the intersection. Seven black birds with fat low hanging bellies swoop past, emboldened by companionship and purpose, they are there and then they are not, no longer seen but still somewhere past the hole of the world. ....
If glass is sand, then sand is glass but I don't think of the beach. The birds that flew by weren't seagulls with grey bodies and white throats. There is no pull and tug of the ocean from the tides, only the rush and grind of the engines from the street below. No smell of sea weed, no smell at all though I see fumes shooting out the back of big, old, trucks with sharp irregular branches and lawn mowers. No sound though I see mouths moving, eyebrows raised, mother's heads turned back where car seats hold children with kicking legs in red pants and white socks. ....
Everything's the same, but then it's brighter, yellowier, the volume is dialed up on the day as the sun comes out again, almost shining through the work window and into me, maybe it does. If I were not at work would the world, right here in this place, look the same? If I were not here to notice it out of this hole in the world?....
posted by Bridget | 7:42 PM
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