The Woman in the Window

“Can you see me?”
I says to the woman in the window,
Through the high-rise—
Where I am far below.

My cheeks rise to frame my grin,
But she keeps looking forward.

Her hair is unreal
And her skin is fiction

The clothes she wears are more than expensive—
Washed in a bronze glow.

I stand here at the street corner
In ragged khakis and a blue Polo shirt,
My knuckles dipped in blood since dried,
Sprinkling like dust.

I says to no one in particular,
“Rapunzel, let down your hair.”

Of course, the woman in the window cannot hear me.
Instead, she looks on through the city
With hidden sights,
Masked with envy

And I watch her with the stench
Of my boots beginning to cause tears
To rush from my eyes.

The bus pulls up—
Right on time.
I step in,
But not before I wave her good-bye

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