stream of conciousness poem to a buddy

[mcbrat]

The whole time I was cleaning my windows people came to pray at the flower patch

Embedded in the parks sod below

There was an older woman who stood

Knelt

Bowed

And took photos and photos of the flowers from all angles

It was as if she had seen many flowers before (see the decorum)

But these had been stunning and ripe to her heart

Probably the first of the season to make their way

Into the part of the heart reserved for soft small fragile things

I washed my windows more softly and small

When I saw it happen each time

I was half naked practically hanging out of my window on the fourth floor overlooking the park

The park completely overlooked me!!

Because the tiny purple and pink and periwinkle ground irises shown flush and fleeting

I had my four windows to attend to— I was not offended.

I thought to cry onto the windows and wipe them clean

But I was wise and grabbed a pitcher

I thought to step out to the windowsill further

But I was wise and tied myself to my life

I thought to scrape the chipping paint also, and wash the outsides, and take a razor blade to the bits of paint someone negligent smudged on the ancient glass, and to recaulk the window settings and to give them all a thick coat of waterproof paint, I thought to ask the landlord what the windowsill color is so I can do that this spring

But I was wise and thought twice— remember this home is not yours.

Maybe I can beg the landlord and take pictures

Maybe he’ll even compliment astonished at how clean and glistening I could render a chipped and rotting window

Or maybe I will just live with wood that takes on water

I did my best today and that is enough

The flowers cannot see my chipped paint

Inside it looks immaculate