The Loneliness of
a bell tower operator far removed from
the heavy breathers and bar crowds. The rope
in her hand makes her small world go “boom.”
Just over the low, brick wall bleeds an auburn
sky. Just as an impressionist would paint,
beginning to lose vision from paint fumes.
Brushstrokes, or another stretch where
not a word is said, not a name is called .
When walking by the mirror is company,
and the hand moves on its own.
*title inspired by The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver by Elbow