Complaining to windows


To my left, there is a lady cleaning.
She looks upset.
For half an hour now, she has been complaining to windows
and making faces at glass.

Every so often, she startles me with an exclamation
and several tongue clicks.
She’s hijacking my concentration
and trespassing my zen.

I want to abandon dignity,
chasten her with my lips.
But I settle for silent warfare
and apply my fingertips.

Dipping my index finger into make-believe paint,
I imagine I can see her aura,
tracing the outline of her body,
colouring it.

Brown turns to beige,
bows down to orange,
submits to pink,
dissolves into white.

My focus returns,
my mind reconnects,
my shoulders droop
and my heartbeat slows.

my dog sleeps soundly,
entertained by a monochromatic landscape
of rabbits and moths.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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