At the Coffee Shop

Outside, a window washer watches
me watching him, works his rhythm,
window after window, simulating a
seamlessness, tipping his squeegee
after every-other downward stroke,
coercing the water to run like blood
from each overlapping pass, though
of course he can’t touch my shining
smudges, the smeared prints inside,
seven-eighths of a glinting inch

Poem by D.R. James

Image by Adam Strong

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