Bowlegged lady crawled across the river on cables
and towers above me, sinuous stone lady.
Below me nothing but the two-inch dimension
of the two-by-fours, and birds bugging the barges.
Her Graceful pelvis arches into the orange evening,
implaccably. Who is she waiting for?
It was a good day and I was about to do something important
and good, but then I unscrewed the pen I was using
to see the ink. Precision German craftsmanship.
The Germans are so persnickety and precise,
they wash their driveways. Their mountains and streams
dance around each other in a clockwork, courtly imitation
of spring. They built the Panzer tank, out of rakes
hoses and garden gnomes; they built me.
And I've seated myself above an avenue on the brink
of mystery, always just on the lip, with my toes over the lip,
but my bowels behind.
When I replaced the ink the sky was socked in,
only one window of blue open in the north, directly over someone.
But that person was reading about Rosicrucians in the laundromat —
he was unaware as the blue window closed above him.
The rest of us are limp and damp.
I see a button in front of us that says "spin cycle."
I'm going to push it.