Truth of My Youth

un parmi les autres, recueil DIY en construction...
Love always.

WINDOW BANE

Everyday, while writing at my desk
i often look out the window to the parking lot
separating my Welfare building from the middle class houses

and every day at the same exact hour i see a blue car parking
on the white-lined lot opposite my window.
____________Number 807.
The driver exits along the neighbors' bushes, closes the driver's door and,
keys in hands walks around the shabby car with a tiny sun roof whose edges are chipped by the sun.
His black pants and tucked white shirt caress the leaves,
he comes out the front of the car, switching his leather briefcase to his key-holding hand and combs his buzz cut,
his red tie sits impeccably, hiding the buttons of the shirt.

He starts whistling while reaching the back wheel:

the soundtrack to his perfect choreography,
everyday he dances in front of me,
unseen and undisturbed
master of the block's cosmos,
he passes the two trees that sit at the entrance of the parking lot
acclaimed by the birds and the soft summertime sun
and commences his run on the gravel sidewalk.
Pay day or not, rain or sun
always the same fucking run.
Today as he slips from my sight at the corner of the beige building
i wonder.
Tomorrow is Sunday, what the hell is he goin to do with his day?
Will he dance and whistle in the comfort of his appartment?
Will he lay his white collar uniform on the chair or the in the chest-a drawers
knowing it'll be worn again the next morning?
Will he leave the TV on?
Will he realize the sick routine has been paused
and enjoy the day off or linger on the things left undone at the office
while his kid or his wife try to talk to him?
Am i even any better than him?

As my scornful thoughts spin
my eyes catch the glowing blond hair
of a very desirable middle-aged woman
in a red tank top and tight jeans who's just parked her car...
and a second later my neighbor, a cancer survivor
who i haven't seen in a while on her way to the bakery,
then the bus stops and my sister exits with the wind in her hair.

If the world's bound to be wretched by the routine of shabby-car-driving executives at least my neighborhood has its saints.