Meditating on the Window Washer

Holding at each, bows his head and
crosses — mistaking each muntin 
for a crucifix. Proximity to pane. 
Accidental baptism of the ground 
below with the steady drip of water
and goo-be-gone. 

We’re out of earshot and intent.
Sounds rid themselves of language 
to speak more lovingly. Warm 
breath down my neck and other signs 
of living — 

That night we returned
to the balcony, rose and roared
with applause for the sun
setting, patting the world
on its blue-green back.