Please, don't be angry

Not all of us live their dreams. Not all of us can

devour fresh cherries during Indian summers.

Let alone if we can tear clouds from the sky

to build our houses in which we can dream, fly.

He thought about this when he was sent with

a hydraulic hoist - for the thousandth time -

to the office towers to clean the windows. Wary,

reserved. As volunteers in shelters sometimes

wash elderly tramps. He watches them passing

by every day. Managers with their copper eyes,

secretaries with their golden legs, analysts with

their silver lips. And he suspects that there

must be. Life resting in the brilliance of their

gestures. Desire dwelling in their hushed words.

But he can't ask them. Sometimes he kisses

the cold window, waving as he was just a friend.