Stroking the window of reality
     With a soft cloth
     And a bottle of Austen's
     Finest ammonia rich cleaner,
The housekeeper for the gods pauses:
     He takes a weather-report glance at March,
     "Gray skies, gray trees, gray streets."
He yawns.
Cleaning windows
     And wondering at the gods
     Who spend such hours asleep
     When they could wake to their dreams
Any moment they desired.
He dreams of blue skies and August
     And grouses at the gods
     Who tolerate gray
When they could make each window a prism
     Each room an explosion of light,
     And give gray streets the silver sheen
     Of black glass reflecting the sun.
He stretches.
Crystal-clean,
     The shining inner window
     Magnifies every dust particle
     And dried remnant of raindrop
     That cling to its outer side.

3/23/84
 

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