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The Window Cleaner

The Window Cleaner by the Bored Bard

He eyes the glass
Fingers all those small imperfections
It bevel- bends to the touch
Breathing, as if alive

He bubbles up the glass
The moisture mix slides downwards
Like frost freezing in fast motion
Leaving behind fine strings of gossamer threads

With his scrim
He pulls gently down on the edges
Swipes away the tears
Least they might smear

The sun warms the glass
And gently he polishes in a circular slow motion
Until it’s smooth to the touch
And gone are all those small imperfections

A job well done he thinks
“Well..... you know what they say about Window Cleaners.”

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

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